At The End of Reason
by kasviel
Summary: The final part of my Watson/Holmes prequel. This leads directly into the movie, explaining what it was that finally split the famous pair of Baker Street.


**Author's Notes**

My goodness, this has taken me a while! As this story is a direct prequel to the movie, taking place at the very beginning of the Blackwood case, I had to tread carefully lest I ruin the continuity leading into the events of the movie. It took some reflection on the events of the film, and I ran around in circles in my mind before being able to get a hold on what the start of the Blackwood case might have looked like. I do leave out much of the details of the case, since the story is centered solely on the relationship and character development.

Once I had in mind the case as the stage for this episode of my little drama, I had to consider the love story itself. It becomes a love triangle here: enter Mary Morstan. It took lots more pondering to decide how to bring her in, since her story was drastically changed from the book. Sherlock had not met her when the movie opened, whereas in the books, she was a client of his. I had to weave her into the Blackwood case, then, but not in a way that disrupted what we know of the case from the movie. I had to take Watson and Sherlock from being the young, smitten lovers of the previous two stories, and age them accordingly, get a grasp on how they went from point A to B. Sherlock changes the least, I got that feeling from the movie when Watson complains about his irresponsibility and all ("You take my clothes. You poison my dog."). Watson, on the other hand, needed to change drastically: he is quite fed up with Holmes in the movie, desperate to get away from him. Why the desperation? What happened to change him? All those things to consider.

Then, there was the breakup itself. I think I hesitated to write it, as it is painful (for me, anyway, I am such a sap). I hated seeing them broken up in the movie (no one will never convince me they were not in the middle of a breakup), and wanted to see Mary thrown off a cliff. Another problem! I wanted to be fair to her and explain why Watson might love her, and that was difficult when I dislike her so much for being the home-wrecker! So, I wanted to honestly portray Watson's appreciation of her, but not let that new love of his belittle his great feelings for Sherlock.

I hope it has come together cohesively. I really, really tried to bring the story full circle in a way that works. This one is more like the first, but has a darker, more ominous caste to it. I hope I captured, even weakly, that sense of "when will it happen, when will it all come crashing down" with the narrative, since this is how Sherlock has felt all along; I hope the reader gets a small sense of how harrowing that is, knowing something will happen but unable to stop it. Sometimes, observation and intellect can mirror prescience in a way; when you know things because you've seen the facts strung out on a chain of logic, but you realize how frail humanity is, and how inevitable the effect of the cause can sometimes be. I would imagine that is how Sherlock lives, which is why he forces himself into his devil-may-care lifestyle. He copes with the inevitability of the future by making the moment all that counts. Watson is the exact opposite, at least now that he is older. He was always the more responsible of the two, and they say that as you grow older, you become more of who you really are. I happen to believe that, so I have Watson maturing, becoming all the more responsible (or wanting to, anyway). The clash of these opposite personalities, opposite needs and wants, opposite _lifestyles_ is, more than Mary or anything else, what I think would have separated Holmes and Watson finally. Again, I can only hope I have written it out and explained it coherently. My mind jumbles with all these scenarios and character studies, but putting them into words, that's the trick, isn't it?

Finally, I want to reiterate my gratitude for all the reviews. Thank you so, so much! So many amazing things have been said that I'm just amazed, really amazed. Sorry these notes are so long! I hope you enjoy this one, my final part of the trilogy. It felt like it took forever, and now it feels like "already"! What can I say? I love this couple, writing the series, all of it. It's been great :-) Thanks for reading.

**Prologue**

_**From the personal diaries of John H. Watson, M.D.**_

"_I think of nostalgia sometimes as a shot through the heart, so sudden and piercingly vital that it stops everything, time and motion and feeling, for a single, delicate moment. So gentle is the finger that presses upon the trigger, so disguised by its warmth, be it a particular scent or sound, a touch or a glimpse. So small is the bullet, something unseen yet felt more sharply than anything on this Earth._

"_It was a song playing scratchily through the old phonograph Sherlock had recently moved into our abode that struck me. He usually prefers music with a more frenetic energy, but this one was a gentle slayer of the heart with its longing violin strains and the exquisite tragedy of the piano's accompaniment. _

"_I remember that you liked it,' Holmes told me, reciting the exact date that we had heard it played at a concert hall outside the city. With a smile, he added, 'A romantic's composition. It suits you.'_

"_We sat by a blazing fire listening to it, and I felt the waves of time sweep me up in their relentless currents. How many years has it been that I have lived here in 221B Baker Street with the incomparable Sherlock Holmes? I can count the years in numbers, but the count is not high enough to describe the magnitude of our long romance. I think more and more of that first day when we met-- How young we were then! I, thinking the war had showed me everything there was to see, and Holmes, so eager and so wide-eyed, before the drugs, before his cynicism clouded all his enthusiasm and he began keeping it strictly to himself. I was seeking some trace of life in the pitiless city, and he was seeking something . . . some sort of approval, some sort of recognition, of appreciation. We found it in each other, and since--_

"_Life has passed. Sometimes it races past in a rush of chaos and excitement, of adventure. Other times, it drips slowly by like the gentle melting of early winter snow. It can wither away in dry crumblings, or ease by as it erodes away wounds and brushes away tears. Sherlock says there is little interesting in life, but I find there to be so much: every sighing breath, every caress, every argument and apology and emotion. There is much, so much . . . sometimes, too much . . . _

"_I felt old for the first time today, listening to that heart-string's trill through the phonograph. Mortality sets in. Grasping Sherlock's hand in my own, that familiar fear crept into me once more. I have known him long enough to know not to fret pettily over his exploits, but there are always moments of true, justified concern over his life. There come now and again those cases where peril is a part of required duty, and those unexpected moments of danger, as well. Then, there are still the drugs, the drugs . . . those hated narcotics. It has been a slow progression, but they now hold him in their thrall just that little bit longer, he uses just that pinch more, and it is just that much harder to break him away from them, even when work does come his way. Physically, he remains undamaged on the surface, but . . . I still worry. I will always worry. At this age, as the realization of mortality sets in, I find the worry growing stronger by the day. My one true love, my only love, and the man I shall likely spend the rest of my days with. I would be loath to lose him. It is selfish, but I would rather die first, simply to avoid spending a day in a world without him. He is more than a friend or lover to me. He is family._

"_Because of my worry for him, I have accompanied him on all his most important cases. There is now a stack of books detailing our adventures, all 'fantastically titled'. Though Sherlock always questions the merit of my 'fanciful' treatment of his work, he has read every one. _

"_This year has been a difficult one for him. There has not been a case worthy of him, he says. As he gets older, he seems to become all the more picky in his choice of cases. He has yelled Inspector Lestrade out of the place several times alone for bringing him 'mundane problems a child could solve'. His mood is the foulest I have seen yet. Sometimes I think the drug has had an effect at last, and taken its toll on his sanity. Other times, I figure he is simply at the peak of his brilliance, therefore it takes all that much more brilliance to challenge him anymore. Either way, it is troubling. _

"_Today he is working on some invention. Tonight, he will lose himself with the drugs. It has gone thus for the past few weeks. A case must happen soon, if not--_

"_Again, I feel old. I wish for some peace in my life. I tell Sherlock these things, but he brushes them off. If only he were not so inconsiderate with me, when I spend most my life considering his needs and feelings."_

**Chapter One**

The air was chill with the promise of autumn that night, Watson noted on his way home to Baker Street. He had been practicing again for some years now, working in the hospital where he had met Sherlock. Stamford had long since married and left London for a quieter life, and Watson knew through a few friendly letters of correspondence that he was well and with his own small practice in the countryside. Stamford marveled at Watson's published adventures with Sherlock Holmes, and Watson congratulated him on his having four sons, before they fell out of touch again.

Watson considered looking him up again tonight. It might be nice to visit with his old acquaintance out in the country. Watson had lost a number of patients today, due to a small outbreak of disease in the city, and was in a somber mood. On these kinds of evenings, London felt cold and uncaring, encroaching upon all that is wholesome and good. The city got inside you sometimes, and there it would fester slowly until you cut it out.

Watson got in to the rooms he shared with Sherlock. He heard no noise as he entered, which did not bode well. If Sherlock was not experimenting, he was usually--

Sherlock was, indeed, laid out across the sofa, unconscious. The needle was barely out of his arm when he had fallen asleep, it seemed. Watson glowered, cleaning everything up and shutting it away in its cabinet. It took him several minutes to reach for Sherlock's arm to take his pulse, and when he did, he found it frighteningly slow. He put a hand over the man's mouth, smelling alcohol, and noticed the shallow breathing.

Perhaps it was due to his facing death that day, but Watson found himself incensed. He got a glass of cold water and splashed it on Holmes' face. The man awoke, but with a much weaker start than he should have.

"Oh, Watson," he murmured, wiping water off his face. "Was that necessary?"

"I think it was," Watson said, arms crossed. "You were half-dead when I came in."

"You exaggerate, Doctor. I was merely--"

"I know what you were doing!" Watson snapped. He yanked Sherlock off the sofa by the arm. "Get up. For God's sake, get up!"

"Must I?" grumbled Holmes.

"YES!" Watson shouted in his ear.

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes widening. He rubbed the ringing sensation from his ear, and let Watson take charge of him. The Doctor was in no mood to be trifled with.

Watson took Sherlock to the bathroom, where he stripped off his robe and ran a hot bath for him. Sherlock tried to be amorous, but Watson would not have it. He briskly helped the man clean up, going so far as to shave him, and dressed him in a fresh suit.

"A fine outfit to wear to bed," yawned Sherlock, staring in the mirror as Watson stood behind him, brushing his hair. "All this effort just to undress me again, Doctor?"

"I will not be undressing you anytime soon," Watson said curtly. "It is early yet, Holmes, and I am willing to wager that you have not yet eaten."

"I ate—something. Earlier."

Watson finished his hair and turned the man around to face him. "You will eat again, now," he ordered. He put a tie around Sherlock's collar and began to knot it. "I can't stand another minute in this place, watching you kill yourself. We are going out for dinner tonight."

"This is a new one," Sherlock remarked. "You intend to start celebrating over dinner your lost patients now?"

Watson gave him a light slap, more of a tap, on the cheek. "No," he said with soft anger, "rather, I intend to celebrate that by some miracle you are not _one of them—_yet."

Sherlock's eyes watered, and he stared at the floor. He did not argue the matter further, knowing that there would be no point to it. Watson usually got in a dark mood when he saw death in large quantities, and today he seemed downright frantic.

_I wish I did not hurt him so, _Sherlock thought in a rare moment of guilt. _I wish I could stop, but the stagnation, the boredom, it makes me want to drive myself through a wall. The world is so average, so vastly uninteresting. I cannot suffer it without some stimulation, whether artificial or not. I need it. Doesn't he see?_

Sherlock gazed up into Watson's stern eyes. _No, he sees only me, his lover, and the death that permeates the city. He sees only the heartbreak losing me would cause him. But does he not understand that we all lose each other eventually? Why fight against it?_

_'Because,' he told me once, 'that is what humans do.'_

Sherlock touched the man's hand. "Doctor, I . . . I do not intend to kill myself."

"No one ever does," Watson said, taking his hand away, "yet they always find some stupid way to do so. Come."

Watson brought him along, and they left Baker Street. The two had nothing to say to one another throughout the cab ride to the restaurant, and little to say over dinner. Sherlock had, it turned out, forgotten the need for sustenance, and devoured his meal, ordering a second helping of everything.

"There, you see?" Watson said. "You _had _been starving yourself."

"I simply forgot a meal, or two."

"You must take better care of yourself, Sherlock."

"But you do such a fine job of taking care of me, Doctor."

"I try, but you do not allow me," Watson said. "All I end up doing is forgiving you time and again, cleaning up after you."

"Is that not what taking care of a person entails, when you come right down to it?"

"No, it is not!" Watson slammed his fist down on the table. Upon garnering the disapproving glances of the other diners, he removed it, and lowered his voice. "I serve you, nothing more."

"I thought you loved me."

Watson sighed. "Of course I love you," he said impatiently. "This is _about _that love, Sherlock."

"Oh?"

"Yes," Watson said firmly. "It is." He leaned closer to the table, to speak more intimately with Holmes. "I wish to _live _the rest of my life with you, love, not spend the rest of my life dying slowly with you. We are not yet old, but neither are we so young anymore. The less time we have in this world together, the more precious becomes what is left of it."

Sherlock set down his utensils, looked at Watson. "You are saying you want to marry me?"

"Don't be cynical," Watson snapped. "I am serious, Sherlock. Listen to me."

Though he remained bemused, Sherlock assured him, "I am listening to you, Watson."

"Anyway, the church and the law might not have us, but we are beyond marriage," Watson said with a small smile. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"I would."

"Then you see how precious you are to me," Watson said gently. "You know how much I love you, how much I care for you. I know that in your way, you also love me. After all these years of my respect for your lifestyle, can you not even consider doing this one thing for me now that I finally ask it?"

"You have been asking it all along," Sherlock accused. "You make no secret of your disapproval, and I do allow you to punish me, don't I? No matter how unpleasant that has been."

"I punish you, you cry, and I forgive you-- And what comes of that? Absolutely nothing," Watson said, shaking his head. "Punishing you is the only way I keep from going mad with you. But I do not wish to do so tonight. I want to talk to you, man to man, and make you see the sense of my advice."

Sherlock looked sullen. Watson's concern always put him on the brink of self-doubt, which was a hard place for an unapologetic man to be. He defended his life and choices violently, his pride never allowing him to admit to a mistake.

"Watson, you are in a morbid mood, and it is no wonder why," Sherlock said. "But look at it this way, there is danger in every aspect of life. Much of the cases we have worked together have been infinitely more harmful."

"But I can be there to protect you in those," Watson said softly. "How can I protect your body from poison flowing inside it? Hm?"

"Well--"

"How can I protect you from the torment of your mind?"

Sherlock's lips tightened, and he stared at his food.

"Please listen to me in this," begged Watson. "Just this once, forget your damned pride and admit to your wrongfulness. You don't even have to say a thing out loud, no apologies or tears, only _listen _to me."

Sherlock sniffed, shook his head. He leaned an elbow on the table, his face upon a hand, and stared at Watson. Why was it so difficult? Why could he not do what everyone else did and submit to another's will? Why could he not even do it when he knew the man was right? Why did he hurt his lover, the most important man in the world to him, this way?

"I am sorry, Watson," he said coldly, sitting up straight as dessert was served between them. "You are trying to change me, and I simply do not think you have the right."

"I love you," Watson said fiercely, once the waiters were gone. "Does that not give me the right?"

Silence.

"Of course not," Watson muttered ruefully. "Together in love, but never in mind. How could the great Sherlock Holmes ever take advice from such a mediocre intelligence as mine?"

"Doctor--"

"Don't!" snapped Watson. "Do not say another word."

He did not even touch the dessert, getting up and storming out. Sherlock stared after him, but did not follow. In his eyes, Watson had been the one to complicate things unnecessarily, and had upset himself over nothing. Besides, it was best to let his temper settle before anything. Sherlock had no doubt it would. After all, it always did.

Sherlock could not stand the crowd of the restaurant much longer. His observant eyes would take in the minutiae of people before he could stop it, and the overflow of useless, inane detail overwhelmed him. How fortunate they all were to be blind to their own glaring faults, to be able to look at a smooth and finished product without being distracted by the seams! The poor fools never suspected how obvious they were, and so common . . . so very, utterly common . . .

Sherlock was surprised to find Watson gone by the time he reached the street. The man usually waited for him, but this time he must have gone ahead. Sherlock felt alone suddenly, and it galled him. He hurried into a cab, impatiently giving the address home.

"You did not wait for me," he said as he came into the sitting room.

Watson turned his fireside chair to face Holmes. His eyes were cold, looking orange with the glow of the fire so close. He held a riding crop in his hands, flexing it idly. "Come here, Holmes."

Sherlock's stomach fluttered, and he hung by the door. "Now-now, Watson," he stammered. "You are being most unfair."

"No, I am giving you what you want," Watson said, standing. "You would rather be treated like a child than face up to the magnitude of your wrongs."

"That isn't true," scowled Sherlock.

"It is!" roared Watson, coming over and taking him by the arm. "You like to think this is all the penalty you'll ever face, from me or from anyone! Your life is nothing more than a game to you!"

Sherlock cringed at his booming lecture. "Watson--"

"Well, here is your game!" Watson threw him over the arm of the sofa. "Perhaps if I keep playing it someday, _someday_, I'll finally be able to delude myself as you do, and believe there is nothing more important at stake."

Sherlock swallowed tightly, eyes dampening with tears. Watson lifted up the back of his jacket, and was unfastening his pants. The shame of it washed over him, but this time it was underscored with a stabbing guilt unlike any he had ever felt before.

"Why do you torture me like this, Watson?" he asked softly.

"I would ask you the same question."

Sherlock covered his face with a hand, tears streaking down his face before he had even been struck. His mind traced the words he so desperately wanted to say, but would not allow himself to. _Don't hate me, Watson. Don't you see I would change if I could? Please don't hate me._

Watson struck the whip across Sherlock's backside. He was surprised to find himself unsympathetic this time; the sight of the angry red stripe on his lover's pale skin merely satisfied him. In all his years of punishing Sherlock, he had never before felt this strong a surge of sadistic pleasure.

Sherlock was quiet, only his occasional small sniffles and shaking shoulders giving away his misery. Watson beat him severely, not even bothering to scold or lecture. The whip cracked line after line into Sherlock's flesh, expressing all the frustration that even Watson's harsh words could never hope to capture.

"Watson, Watson, that is enough!" Holmes finally cried, unable to stand the searing pain any longer. "Enough, I said, please!"

Watson eyed him, surprised to hear his proud lover pleading. Nonetheless, he continued the whipping. "I'll decide when it is enough."

"Don't be cruel to me, Watson," Sherlock said softly. He winced as the whip licked across his backside. "Please. I don't—I don't _mean _to hurt you, you know that."

"But you never mean to not hurt me, either," Watson pointed out. "You don't consider me for one moment if it impinges upon you. You simply do what you want, and damn the consequences, because there are no real consequences!"

"Then what would you call this, love?"

"A game!" Watson said scornfully, striking Sherlock harder. The crack of the whip punctuated a short silence, the noise almost like a gunshot in the quiet rooms. "It is nothing that will affect your life, and I suspect you secretly either enjoy it, or at least know you need it-- or both. Anyway, there is no sense of loss, no direness to it. There would be only one way to punish you in a way you would really feel it."

Sherlock cringed, pressing a fist to his mouth to stifle a whimper. "M-mmph. And what would I feel more than-- aaahh, oww-- more than this?" He looked over his shoulder at the man.

Watson paused, breathing heavily from the effort. He rubbed his arm briefly, meeting Sherlock's eyes. "If I were to leave you."

Sherlock sniffled, averting his gaze. Damn him, but he was right. Sherlock could imagine no worse punishment than losing Watson, even if for only a few days. How degrading it would be to be forced into groveling after him . . . The man shuddered.

"Now, how would you like me to do that?" Watson swung the crop, and it slapped mildly against Sherlock's bottom. "Would that be preferable?"

"Don't be ridiculous! Of course not!"

"Then?"

"Are you threatening me with that?" Sherlock asked. "Has it . . . come to that, Doctor?"

"No," Watson sighed. He rubbed his face, hooking his wrist through the crop's handle. "No, it hasn't, Holmes. I would not threaten something I am still incapable of carrying out."

Sherlock smiled a tiny smile through his tears, and Watson pointed the crop at him warningly. "But don't you go on taking that fact for granted," he said. "I may get to that point yet."

Sherlock stared abashedly at the floor. "You are trying to wound me severely today."

Watson felt those first pangs of pity and guilt shoot through him. He came beside Sherlock, running a hand over the raised welts lining his buttocks nearly to the thigh. He felt Sherlock cringe at the touch, hated causing that reaction in his beloved.

"I am only concerned for you, Sherlock, as always." Watson set the whip aside, and sat down on the sofa. "Here, come here."

Sherlock crawled over the sofa's arm, curled up in the man's arms. Watson removed his jacket and tie for him, cradling him comfortingly. Sherlock had calmed, though he was still wiping tears from his eyes with a handkerchief of his and blushing scarlet.

"You may think me stern, but I am actually a lenient master to have," Watson told him. "Through all these years, I have always been slow with the whip, and fast with forgiveness. Not once have I ever walked out of this home of ours on you. Not once."

"I know," Sherlock said quietly. "I am grateful to you, Watson. I truly am."

"But you take advantage of it."

Sherlock drew a shuddering breath. "I might. A little."

"And you never change."

"I thought you loved me the way I am?"

"I do, but it pains me," Watson said. He settled more comfortably into the sofa, hugging the smaller man in his arms more tightly. "Lately, I . . . I have been in a pensive mood. It may be the age I am approaching or the streak of deaths at the hospital, but I have been looking back at our life together."

Sherlock slid until his weight rested on his lower back rather than on his bottom, trying to ease the incessant sting. "Our painful life together," he muttered.

Watson just tousled his hair. "But I am not only looking at the past, I am also looking ahead to the future, Sherlock," he went on. He tipped Sherlock's face up to his own. "_Our _future."

"The future is for families," Sherlock said dismissively, waving a hand. He finished drying his eyes and sniffled a last time. "For husbands and wives looking to provide for their children. It is not a thing for us."

"That is the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard," Watson murmured in amusement. "Come now, you don't mean that?"

"I do."

"Well, I don't believe it," Watson said certainly. "So long as you are with me, we _do _have a future, whether you like it or not. You may not want to protect that future, but I do."

"Watson, you can't protect me from everything," Sherlock said. "Believe it or not, I am not a child."

"It has nothing to do with age, though you certainly act childish enough," Watson said. He shifted the man in his arms, bringing their faces level. "No, it is a natural instinct of men to protect the person they are with. Being the observant man I know you are, I am sure you've seen it in men defending their women often enough. Well, I feel that same inclination towards you, Holmes."

"But I am not a woman."

Watson bristled. "It does not matter that you are not a woman, I love you all the same!" he snapped.

"You have quite a way of showing it," Sherlock said dryly.

Watson gave him a look, and Sherlock shut his mouth. He turned his dark eyes to the ceiling, innocently.

"I love you and want to protect you, so we can share the future, Holmes," Watson told him. "How can I do that unless you allow me to?"

"Do you think I--" Sherlock stopped himself abruptly.

"Yes?"

"We will share our lives for as long as you wish, because I would never leave you, Watson," Sherlock said. He nestled his face in Watson's neck, working his way up until their lips met in a long, tender kiss. "Mm, trust me."

"I know you would never mean to, but--" Watson held Sherlock's warm, flushed face in his hands, caressing him. "--what if the choice is taken from both our hands?"

"But that could happen at any time," Sherlock insisted.

"Exactly, so why further invite it?"

Sherlock sighed, frustrated. Watson did the same.

"It appears we are at an impasse," Watson observed. "Where do we go from here?"

"You can figure it out, Doctor." Sherlock kissed him, and then climbed over him. He began undoing the man's shirt buttons. "In the meantime, well--"

Watson exhaled, laughing out of sheer exhaustion. All of this, and he knew he had gotten absolutely nowhere. He should have known better than to try.

"You may be the one to have been beaten, but I always end up feeling defeated," Watson said wearily. "I am your master in title only."

Sherlock met his eyes. "If you say so, Master."

Watson laughed. "You enjoy being a cheeky little devil, don't you? Sometimes I think you live your decadent life solely to see me fret over you."

"No, Master."

"But you at least take pleasure in it?"

Sherlock smiled that half-grin of his. "Not at all, Master."

"Enough! Ahhh, Holmes--" Watson sighed heavily, embracing the man. "You are impossible."

Sherlock kissed him in response, trying to urge him into giving up his worry. Watson knew what he was doing, but allowed it. It was never very hard to get lost in Sherlock's affection; the man was a beautiful, skillful, passionate lover. It was always a surprise to find such warmth beneath so many layers of coldness.

_It makes it all worth it to me, and he knows it, _Watson thought, taking a moment to simply enjoy the taste of the other, his tongue darting in Sherlock's mouth, then licking at the side of it. _He could have anything of me. He has **everything **of me, and I keep giving. I only hope I do not run dry. There are points people cannot go beyond. That is what I have been trying to tell him. I feel at the edge of a precipice, sliding ever towards that last fall, and chained to Sherlock as I go. I can see that point where his body will take no more, or the point when I finally cannot go any further with him. One or the other. I see it happening, and I'm terrified. Why, why does he refuse to admit it? He must see it, with those sharp eyes of his, he must! Why does he, then, run towards that edge? Does he want to fall?_

_Always, **always **will I love him, but never shall I understand him._

**Chapter Two**

"Sherlock, wake up."

The sharp command did its job of rousing Sherlock from a deep slumber, but it also succeeded in annoying him first thing in the morning. The man opened his eyes, scowled, and pulled a pillow over his head.

"Ohhh, Watson, what is the matter with you?" he groaned. "Go away, go to work. I'm still tired."

"I am not going in till later today, and in the meantime--" Watson yanked the pillow from Holmes' hands. He shook it off, fluffed it up. "--I am going to make certain that you get up at a decent time this morning. I can, at least, see to it that you do _some_ things correctly."

"No, you cannot," Holmes grumbled, pulling the sheets over his head. "Let me alone, Doctor, I happen to be in a lot of pain, as you well know."

"That is your own fault, as _you _well know." Watson pulled the covers off of Holmes, folding them at the end of the bed where he could not reach them. "Come on, up." Watson tried to pull him out of bed, amazed that such a small man could make himself so heavy. "Up with you!"

"No, no, no!" Sherlock fussed, hitting Watson's hands away. "Leave me! I—owww!"

Watson pulled him up, and Sherlock flinched upon sitting. He gave Watson a pitiful look, his black hair completely on end, his nightclothes hanging scandalously on his otherwise naked frame, and a flush in his cheeks. A smile began to crack Watson's stern demeanor, and he turned away from the sight to chuckle.

Sherlock sat in a huff, drawing his clothes around himself for warmth. "You've had your fun, Doctor, now would you kindly let me be?"

"No, you must get up."

Watson drew the curtains, and Sherlock fell back in bed with a yelp. He writhed in the mattress, trying to warm himself, but was soon hoisted up again by the arm. Watson, with effort, pulled him down from the bed, setting him on the floor. The cold boards on his bare feet caused Sherlock to groan again, and he tried to make for the bed.

"No, _no_." Watson held him firmly in place. "Listen to me. You are going to dress and have breakfast in this hour, Holmes. Not noon, and not evening, for goodness' sake! Right this hour!"

Sherlock sulked. "Why do you treat me like a child?"

"Why do you act like a child?"

"Fine!" Sherlock threw on his dressing robe, slippered his feet. "I'll stay up, but only because I am too exhausted to fight with you over it." He yawned widely. "Go fetch some coffee for me, then."

Watson patted his shoulder. "There's a good lad."

Sherlock just scowled. Once Watson had gone, he looked to the door, considering being true to his word. The feeling passed, however, and he threw himself back in bed shortly.

Watson came in again some time later, finding Sherlock snoring softly again in bed. He looked so peaceful that Watson was tempted to leave him. _No, _he thought, _I mustn't be so soft with him._

"You liar."

Sherlock rolled onto his back, looking sleepily up at Watson. "Yes, I am."

Watson leaned over him on the bed, their faces almost brushing. "So, you want to stay in bed, do you?"

"I do." Sherlock eyed him distractedly, a sleepy smile on his face. He reached up and began untying Watson's tie. "And I have a brilliant idea."

"Yes, and what is that?"

"Why don't you--" Sherlock now began undoing buttons on Watson's shirt. "--stay with me?"

"Stay with you? In bed all day?"

"Yes." Sherlock nestled his face into Watson's neck, kissing him. "You could comfort me."

"Ha! Comfort you?" Watson echoed, though he threw himself over the man, brushing his hair off his face. "What makes you think you deserve comfort, eh?"

Sherlock kissed him. He felt Watson's arm sliding around him, their bodies moving closer. He knew he had him.

Watson groaned in defeat, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, what am I going to do with you?"

Sherlock took the tie from around his neck and blindfolded him. "Why not let me do a thing with you for a change?"

Watson reached for the blindfold, but then left it. He exhaled wearily, giving up. He did not need to see Sherlock to envision the smile dawning across his face as he realized his victory, the triumph in those compelling eyes. He felt Sherlock's lips kiss his neck, his eyelashes fluttering across Watson's skin. How tender a lover he was . . .

Sherlock was sultry in the early morning hours, lazily tracing his lover's face with his fingers, smelling his skin, pressing his lips to the soft flesh. His cynicism would melt away at times like these, and his detailed mind would become fixed solely on his lover. It was a safe place to be, with one you trust. It was so perfect, so intimate, that it almost depressed him all over again. How sacred these fleeting moments. If only he could tell Watson that he _did _cherish them, that he _did _appreciate every single second of their time together. He wished his words did not cut to the bone, wished his temper did not run away with him. He wished he could keep Watson like his forever, wordless and blind, just a captive to his touch, to their mutual love.

_What good are words? Words, sights . . . how insignificant . . . I live by them, yet I . . . I wish I could vanish into this blind emotion. Even the body becomes insubstantial in the flood of feeling. No one will ever know how much I . . . I **do **enjoy feeling . . . _

_I am not a machine, as I told him . . . all those years ago . . . _

Watson lifted a corner of the tie that was blindfolding him. "Sherlock? Are you crying?"

Sherlock lifted his face, and the tears were streaking down his face. The droplets of moisture delicately dripped onto Watson's bare skin, one, then another. Sherlock smiled quietly, and brought his lips to Watson's. They kissed, and Watson brought an arm around him.

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing, and that is precisely what is wrong," Sherlock said with a small laugh. He sniffled, resting his forehead against the doctor's. "Everything is perfect, as it has been all these years."

"Sherlock?"

"Never mind," Sherlock said shortly. He wiped his eyes, and leaned his head on Watson's chest. "Just never mind. It isn't important."

Watson frowned briefly in puzzlement, but knew it would be pointless to question him further. Sherlock felt on whims, tumultuously, and would never use words to express his feelings. Watson kissed the top of his head, and they lay in the dawning sunlight, together.

_Let the world go by, then, _Watson thought. _Let the future be what it is. For only this moment, let it all just be._

_**From the personal diaries of John H. Watson, M.D.**_

"_I let the day go. Oh, everyone would wonder why I was absent from the hospital, and they would assume what they would. Let them talk. I was tired, and Sherlock was a comfort as always. How sweet it was to simply **be**, with him. If only that moment could stretch on forever . . . _

"_It is evening now, and I have insisted on going to dinner with Sherlock again. I know he prefers to shun the world, but I believe if we are to have any future together, once we are retired and past the rush of our professions, we must learn to enjoy the world together."_

Sherlock had eyes only for Watson that night. He managed to shut out the rest of the world and all its irritating minutiae. He was amicable and warm over dinner, and the two discussed many subjects. Watson did not dare comment on it, but he found great relief in seeing Sherlock so natural, so happy. It was all he ever wanted from him, but catching that moment of joy from him was like trying to net a star from the sky.

To their surprise, Inspector Lestrade, from Scotland Yard, happened to be in the restaurant. He hesitantly asked to join them, and the good-spirited Sherlock was the first to insist that he did. Lestrade made small talk with the two, but then revealed his true intentions:

"Now, Mr. Holmes, I, well--" The poor man did not seem to know where to start. "There is a bit of an interesting case that has come up."

Despite his good mood, Sherlock said coldly, "I shall be the judge of that."

Watson frowned at him, but Sherlock sipped his wine, either not noticing or pretending not to notice. Lestrade was a bit dismayed by the sudden biting tone, but he began to detail the case, anyway. A woman had been murdered in ritual fashion, he said, by the leader of a small but powerful following.

"Wholly uninteresting," Sherlock dismissed it. "Cultists are often melodramatic, but not very clever."

Watson was starting to feel anger take hold of him. He bowed his head, looking at Sherlock from the corner of his eyes.

"That may be true, sir," Lestrade said, "but in all honesty, there is a bit of mystery to it. I thought you might be interest--"

"I am not."

Watson slammed a fist on the table, getting the attention of both.

"An innocent woman is dead," he said, glaring at Sherlock, "and her killer is loose upon the streets of London. Surely, that is worth a moment of your priceless attention, Holmes?"

Sherlock blushed. Watson had never reprimanded him in front of company before.

"It may be worth a glance," Sherlock said slowly. He stared at Watson, trying to figure out why he was so stern. Unable, for once, to read him completely, he turned his attention to Lestrade. "If anything, I shall be able to lift this menace from your streets for you."

Lestrade's left eye twitched, but he humbly thanked the arrogant detective nonetheless. He noted the discomfort between Sherlock and Watson, and it was not long before he excused himself from their table.

"What was that, Watson?" Sherlock asked quietly, his eyes on his dessert.

"What was what?"

Sherlock met his eyes. "_That_."

Watson waved a hand. "I am not angry with you, Sherlock," he said. "I simply find you too cold at times, you know that."

"People die every day on the street in London, and many of them, I am sad to inform you, are innocent women," Sherlock said dryly. He sipped his wine. "Why is this one so intriguing to you?"

"Sherlock, it has nothing to do with me," Watson said. "We are both aware of your gifts, your brilliance-- No, don't start smiling at me that way, I am not flattering you."

Nonetheless, Sherlock grinned.

"However," Watson went on testily, "you have a remarkable lack of responsibility in terms of using those gifts. Have you ever really thought about what you represent to justice?"

"I have indeed," Sherlock said solemnly. "It is justice that has never considered what I might mean to it."

"Still, you have opportunities to help," Watson said. "And, you deny most of them."

"They bore me," Sherlock said carelessly. As Watson started, he interrupted, "No, no, do not voice the next part. Listen to me, Doctor, it is not _my _responsibility to solve every petty case that comes my way. Nor will I do such a thing to appease you. If you want justice, join the Yard yourself."

"I only wonder why _you _do not want justice, Holmes," Watson told him. "You really do not care?"

"Not particularly."

"People are not only figures in problems, Sherlock," Watson said softly.

"They are until they prove themselves exceptional," Sherlock said. He raised his glass at Watson. "As you did, Doctor, all those years ago."

The nostalgia made Watson pause in his mild argument to smile a sentimental smile.

"The more talent one has," Sherlock said, taking the pause as an opportunity to continue his defense, "the more careful he has to be in meting it out to the world. Oh, they downplay my considerable gifts, chalk it up to whatever ego-soothing phenomenon they want, but were I to prove, once and for all, my true genius to the world--" He broke off, shaking his head, his eyes darting around the restaurant with nervous energy. "Everyone would want a piece of my mind for themselves, and soon I would be left mindless."

"No great humanitarian, are you, Sherlock?"

"Neither are you, Doctor," Sherlock reminded him. "Tell me, would you walk the most obscure and scurvy streets of the city in search of patients to treat without compensation?"

"That is different."

Sherlock noted the uncertainty in his voice, and met it with surety to drive his point home. "No, it is not," he said. "We are not running charities, either of us."

"Point taken," Watson gave in. "Still, your view of humanity rings a bit too cold for me. I don't like to interfere with your profession, but this case sounds a bit too gruesome to be written off as a boring non-issue to me."

"I respect your opinion, Doctor. However, your manner of bringing it up rings a bit too cold for me, as you said."

"I'm sorry, Holmes," Watson apologized, though he had a bemused smile on his face. "I didn't mean to scold you in front of Lestrade."

Sherlock looked at him with that subtle anger in his eyes that was worse than an overdone glare.

"Don't pout."

Sherlock wiped his mouth with his napkin, got to his feet. "I don't pout," he said, buttoning his jacket. "Coming?"

"Yes. Where?"

Sherlock gave him a look that said he was up to something, and went ahead without a word. Watson took the action he always was reduced to taking in such situations: he followed Holmes. Sherlock made straight to the table where Lestrade was still eating.

It took a bit of convincing, but Sherlock managed to wrangle Lestrade away from dinner to go to the crime scene. Watson just shook his head, giving up, as he always did eventually, on Sherlock's rudeness. Sherlock was, as he always told himself, Sherlock.

It was a bit of a drive to the crime scene. During the cab ride, Lestrade stated the facts of the case in the no-frills way he knew Sherlock demanded. Sherlock pressed his fingertips together in a steeple before his mouth, his eyes distant and glazed in thought as his mind absorbed the data.

A figure was rising among the deviant underworld of the city, a figure of much power and even more powerful influence, it was thought. He was an occult presence calling himself 'Lord Blackwood', and he claimed to have power over life and death. Sherlock shut his eyes at this folly, but restrained himself from making a cynical remark.

"The scene?"

"As we found it."

"Exactly?"

"As exactly preserved as humanly possible, Mr. Holmes."

"Humanly possible, hmm. It will have to do," Sherlock said wryly. "Now, a woman dies in a sacrificial ritual by a single, self-inflicted stab wound to the chest. There is no trace of the cultists or their leader, you say?"

"Not a one."

"No one heard this ritual? Happened upon it? Heard of it?"

"No."

"And there is no clue as to who this enigmatic leader is? Or his purpose?"

"We believe me might be a noble that shares the surname 'Blackwood', but no one has seen his face to ascertain the accusation, and the accused has not been seen publicly for some time. As for his purpose, only that he intends to extend his influence, like they all do, I s'pose," Lestrade said.

"No, that is an assumption, I have no need for assumptions," Sherlock said impatiently. "The means is irrelevant, as cults frequently set up such instances and the public has an acute blindness when it comes to noticing such activity. As for method, I shall most likely deduce that tonight. Motive, motive . . . I need more data."

"Tribute to the Devil?" mused Watson. "That's a popular one."

"It could be a thing as mundane as that, or something much deeper," Sherlock said. "Too early to tell. At the moment, that is also irrelevant, however. Even the identity of this man, Blackwood, is irrelevant. We must find him."

"Agreed," Lestrade said.

"Absolutely," Watson chimed in wholeheartedly.

Sherlock eyed the doctor. _He has become more sentimental with age. Natural occurrence, but troubling. Watson has been my steadfast partner all these years, and any change in him is for the worse. Humans need evolution of spirit, of mind, but they are remarkably adverse to change all the same. We hate it in our partners, we marvel at it in ourselves. It causes violent reactions on both sides of any relationship—irrational reactions. I hate irrationality._

Watson frowned, a bit puzzled, at Sherlock. What was the man thinking? Was he thinking about him, or was he simply pondering the case while looking at him? That gaze could certainly be unnerving . . .

_I worry about him, _Sherlock thought morosely. _Everything is perfect, it has been for years. Why let it change? Why change it now?_

Sherlock fell into a glum mood. The air was chill in the late summer, and carried the scent of rain. He tried to ignore things as misleading as instincts, but an ominous feeling had settled into him. Something about the case gnawed at him for no reason at all, and Watson's behavior was all the more disturbing. Change was in the air, and he did not like it.

_It frightens me._

Sherlock shuddered upon exiting the cab. Watson put an arm in his, steadying him. Sherlock was, for once, appreciative of the tender protectiveness, and rested a hand upon his friend's arm. They followed Lestrade through the police force buzzing about, making their way through a dark, tree-shaded courtyard.

Sherlock looked up at the plain, solemn abandoned church that housed the crime scene. He was struck with the recollection of that hot summer day when he had stood witness to Irene Adler's marriage. He mentioned this fact to Watson, adding amusedly, "I believe this is the first time I will set foot in another church since that day."

"Heathen," Watson teased.

As they approached the decrepit building and the smell of death entered his nostrils, Watson felt his amusement vanish. A chill ran through his blood, and he felt they were on the verge of misfortune and evil tidings. Entering the building, he gripped more tightly to Holmes.

Sherlock's eyes lit upon the crime scene, darting from detail to detail to detail. He broke free of Watson's grasp immediately, rushing over to the gruesome display. Watson reached out after him, but knew it would do no good. He let his hand fall, running his fingers over the warmth that lingered from the grasp.

As Sherlock rushed to the desecrated altar, Watson was struck by more ill tidings. He watched the small, dark-clothed figure of Sherlock immersed in the dim light of the lamps the police had set up, which threw off a red hue from all the paint and blood. His eyes played tricks on him, and he envisioned Sherlock swallowed up by blood, blood . . .

Watson blinked, rubbed his eyes. The vision did not leave him. He recognized the feeling, as well; it was the same feeling that had caused him such trepidation and, then, fury yesterday.

_When I walked in and saw him asleep on the sofa, _Watson recalled bitterly, _I envisioned him dead there. That was why I beat him so fiercely. That is why I feel my hands shaking right now. I know not how or why, or whether I can stop it, but . . . he is on a course for death._

Watson felt his eyes water, and he had to lean a hand on a pew for support. _Don't you see it, Holmes? I know you don't trust instinct or feeling, but . . . can't you __**feel **__it? Must you be so stubborn and deny it?_

Watson finally approached the scene of the murder. He wrinkled his nose at the sight and the smell. It was a tableau of ungodly death, illustrated with blood and mysterious symbols. Upon the altar lay a woman, her sky blue eyes still and empty with death. Blood flowed down her white gown and her white body, sticky still waterfalls pooling in thick pools at the bottom of the altar. Her hair was a wheat color between blond and light brown, and was sprawled loose around her frame, to her waist, much of it stained crimson. She stared sightlessly to the high ceilings of the church, as if praying to a God that had not saved her. One arm hung limply down the side of the altar, and the other clutched the knife that she had plunged into her own heart.

Sherlock's pale hand shooting out to the knife startled Watson so much that he stumbled back. Sherlock glanced at him, but was too concerned with his investigation to see if he was all right. He removed the woman's hand, his eyes brisking over her fingers, palm, and nails, and then bent very close to examine the blade. After a moment, he asked Lestrade, "Do you mind?"

Lestrade shook his head. He turned to Watson and asked if he was all right. Watson shakily replied that he was. Inside, he felt a cold, steady fury tightening his chest, a hatred for the butcher responsible for the scene.

Sherlock removed the knife carefully, holding it by the tip and end with a handkerchief. He turned it this way and that, set it down, looked at it with a magnifying glass. He then turned the glass on the wound in the girl's chest, but that only briefly.

Unable to remain quiet, Watson seethed, "What kind of monster--"

"Doctor, please," Sherlock chided, not looking back at him. He buzzed about the body a few minutes longer. Then, "Would you mind examining the eyes and mouth."

Watson bristled. It had not been a request. Nonetheless, he obeyed, unable to think of much else to do. He always disliked murder, but the brutality of this one made him especially outraged.

"An innocent girl," he growled as he examined her, "completely destroyed at random, by chance."

"Chosen for her reputation of chastity and good, according to the police," Sherlock said. For once, his matter-of-fact demeanor was tinged with displeasure. He shared a look of mutual distaste with Watson, and then moved on.

"She appears to have had a seizure, wouldn't you say, Doctor?"

"Yes," Watson said distractedly. He gently shut the young woman's eyes. No need to pray anymore. Forgetting whether he had answered or not, he repeated, "Yes."

"It is common to use a drug to induce seizure or near-seizure in these kinds of rituals," Sherlock said. "The convulsions mimic the appearance of possession, spiritual ecstasy, or whatever you like. My guess is this woman was guided by the commanding voice of the leader, superstition, fear, and, most strongly, pain: that is normally the recipe, tried and true, for inducing ritual suicide. Or 'sacrifice', if you would."

Again, Watson burst out, "What kind of devil--"

"Not a devil," Sherlock said softly, "only a man. Man is the only beast worth fearing, Doctor."

Such a heavy silence fell that it remained until Sherlock had finished investigating. Lestrade flitted about the fringes of the crime scene, pointing out things that Sherlock dismissed with an impatient wave of the hand. Watson hung back, trying to keep thoughts of the war, of the hospital, out of his head. He was not squeamish, being a doctor, but he was terribly adverse to human suffering. Though all the pain was past here, he could still feel the remnants of the horrors lingering in the air, and it frustrated and depressed him sorely.

When he was done, Sherlock came up to Watson and Lestrade. Blood had smeared on his cheek when he had been leaning so closely over some symbols drawn on the wall, and Watson gave him a disapproving look. Sherlock ignored it.

"Any ideas?" Lestrade asked hopefully.

"A few," Sherlock said vaguely. He tried to hit Watson away, but the doctor insisted on wiping his cheek with a handkerchief. "However, it does not bode well." He lifted the knife, which he had wrapped in another handkerchief, and handed it to Lestrade. "Either this Blackwood is exceptionally sloppy, or--"

Watson and Lestrade looked at him anxiously. Watson turned the man to face himself. "Or?"

"Or he _wishes _us to follow the trail he left," Sherlock said uneasily. "One of the trails, anyway. Not all of them are as blatant as the one the knife leads to."

"But you do not know which were left deliberately, and which were not?" Watson asked.

"Exactly."

"Hmm."

Watson finished wiping off a smudge, and their eyes met. _All I want to do is take him in my arms and hold him, _the doctor thought sadly. _I yell at him for acting like a child, but at the moment, I would be happy to treat him as one: take him against my chest, shield him from all this ugliness. Not that he needs shielding. Of the three of us, Holmes is the most robust at these kinds of scenes, even considering my professional detachment. Perhaps he is right about the need for total coldness._

Sherlock caught Watson's look, and gave him a reassuring little smile. It was weak, however, and he ended up taking the man's hand in addition. Lestrade had gone to gather his men, so the gesture went unnoticed.

"Do you think he would arrest us if I kissed you?" Watson mused. He squeezed Sherlock's hand, smiled tightly.

"I think he would," Sherlock said. Still, he lifted Watson's hand to his lips and pressed them to it tenderly. "These scenes have a terrible effect on you, don't they, Doctor?"

"I will manage," Watson said. "So, interesting enough a case for you, Holmes?"

"Not yet."

Sherlock cocked his head, listening to Lestrade. He heard the order given to remove the body and whipped around in alarm. "No, you fools, don't--"

As the woman's corpse was lifted, there was the sound of a spark. The altar exploded, throwing injured and dead officers around like insects. Sherlock and Watson turned to stare helplessly as fire rippled through the church in snaking paths, catching every piece of old, dry wood on its way.

"Damn!" Sherlock exclaimed. He rushed to the doors, but found them shut. "Watson!"

Watson, and then Lestrade, were soon at his side. They tried to pry the doors open, and the police outside tried it from their side, but they would not budge. Soon, the flames had taken them, and they were impossible to get near. The temperature in the decrepit building rose, and the odor of burning flesh from the altar choked them.

"Why didn't you warn us?" Lestrade shouted at Sherlock.

"I thought it would be obvious," Sherlock muttered, pacing around. His eyes were wild as they swept around the church. They had lfifteen minutes until the place collapsed, less if those huge beams overhead happened to crush down on them.

"I lost men there!"

"Quiet!" Watson snapped at Lestrade. He came up beside Sherlock. "Assessment?"

"This way."

"To the altar!" Lestrade exploded. "Are you mad!"

"Be quiet and help me, damn you!" Sherlock shouted, in a rare moment of lost temper. He marched himself to the altar and began kicking away human remains and debris. "Or did you bring me along for decoration?"

Lestrade scowled at him, but he knew to trust the detective. He and Watson joined Sherlock, uncertain of what they searched for. Holmes' suspicions came to light when they found a trap door beneath the altar, however, and they rushed to open it.

Sherlock looked peaky, loosening his tie and opening his shirt. His hair was matted down across his forehead with sweat, skin stark white. Watson tried to put a guiding hand on his back, but Sherlock impatiently brushed it off, taking the lead in front of them.

_It is hard to believe I had him whipped just the other day, _Watson thought, following Sherlock down the ladder. _When he is working, he is in full command of himself and everyone else. There is no room for coddling or for scolding. **I **am the one in his charge. It is all I can do to watch his back, make certain he stays safe._

They were in tunnels beneath the church, the air smelling of earth and their sweat. The men looked around, but dared not move until Sherlock beckoned them to follow him. They walked for a while in silence, save for the scurrying of rats and the distant dripping of water.

"Inspector Lestrade," Holmes said suddenly, not looking back at the man as he spoke. "I do not appreciate being yelled at as if I were one of your insignificant little officers."

"I'm sorry, Holmes, but I think my duress is understandable," Lestrade said. "Had you said just one word, I would not have lost three men in there. Three men."

Sherlock was quiet. Watson had the feeling he was stopping himself from speaking ill of the dead. Watson came up beside him, gave him a knowing, warning glance. Sherlock eyed him, but still said nothing.

"Sherlock," Watson murmured to him, squeezing his shoulder.

Sherlock drew a breath. "My condolences," he said grudgingly to Lestrade. "I shall endeavor to voice my findings more often, and--" His voice dropped a decibel into a mean murmur. "--never to overestimate the astuteness of Scotland Yard."

"I heard that last bit," Lestrade said.

"I know," Sherlock said carelessly. He sniffed to clear his smoke-filled nostrils, lifted his head, and strode farther ahead of them both.

Watson fell in step beside Lestrade. Lestrade was grumbling about wanting to give Holmes a good kick in the arse sometimes. Watson just smiled to himself, the sentiment all too familiar.

"How can you stand him, Doctor?" Lestrade asked. He removed his hat, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"It is not often easy, but worth the pain of knowing him," Watson smiled. "He is-- Well, he is remarkable, despite his less-than-sterling personality."

"I heard that," Sherlock said from up ahead.

"I know," Watson said, mimicking Sherlock's diffident tone.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at him. Watson smiled to soften the little barb.

"Beg pardon, but I am quite--" Lestrade sighed heavily.

"Are you well, sir?" Watson asked in concern.

"I am well, but the loss pains me," Lestrade said. "I swear, Doctor, when I lay my hands on this fellow, there will be no force of God or Devil that will stop me from--"

"When I _hand him over _to you, you mean."

Watson frowned. "Sherlock, that is quite enough."

"What did I say wrong?" Sherlock asked. "The Yard should be grateful I am willing to--"

"Enough!"

Sherlock's expression soured. This was the second time Watson chided him in the company of Lestrade, and the habit was fast fraying his nerves.

They came to an open space with unlit torches and barrels and crates stacked up around. Sherlock held up his hands, and they all came to a stop. He very carefully made his way to the torches and lit them. His eyes swept over the area, searching for hidden perils, but there were none. He motioned for the others to come into the room-like area.

"Have a seat for a moment, Officer Lestrade," Watson told the man. "We are all fatigued, and the smoke we inhaled is affecting our breathing." He removed a flask from his coat pocket and handed it to to the man. "Here, have some brandy."

"Thank you, Doctor, thank you." Lestrade took a swig, swallowed. "I apologize for what I said. I know you two are more than friends."

Watson's eyes widened.

"You're like brothers, so much is obvious."

Watson breathed again in relief. He could have sworn he heard a soft chuckle from Sherlock. Doubtless, the detective found Lestrade's misinterpretation of their relationship hilarious.

"You may be kind and caring, a decent and honest man, Doctor, and Holmes is-- Well, Sherlock Holmes is Sherlock Holmes, you might say," Lestrade said, shaking his head. "Still, there are unlikelier friends in this world, and no one can question your love for each other."

"Indeed not," Watson said, though the words pained him. The visions of Sherlock swathed in death returned to his mind, and he wished for the briefest moment that he did not love the man so.

_I said it was worth it, _he thought. _Is it worth it?_

Watson looked over at Holmes, who was opening barrels and sniffing the contents within. _Oh, of course it is. How can I doubt it? I love him so very much, and he, in his way, loves me. How could it not be worth even this pain?_

_. . . But if I lost him, would it still be as worth it?_

"Holmes is right to be cross with me, I s'pose," Lestrade said. "It was wrong of me to say such a thing. As for the men, it is not your fault, Mr. Holmes. I do not blame you."

"Good," Sherlock exclaimed, whipping around to face him from the other side of the room, "because blaming me would be exceptional stupidity, even for you!"

Lestrade bristled, but held his tongue. He drowned whatever curses were on the tip of his tongue with a long drink of brandy. Sherlock turned away from him again, going back to examining the room. Watson headed over to him.

"_What_--" He gave Sherlock's bottom a poke with his walking stick. "--is the matter with you?"

"Ow, _oww_," whispered Sherlock. "Do you mind? I'm still sore from that—incident—yesterday, I'll have you know."

"Well, good," Watson said tersely. "Pity you aren't as sensitive as your bruises, however. Why are you being so hard on Lestrade?"

"Those men dying was not my fault," hissed Sherlock. He edged away from Watson, rubbing his bottom briefly. "He had no right to blame me. The woman was bound to the altar with thin white cord, obviously—_obviously _tied to something hidden inside the thing. I thought the police knew this, and that was their reason for not moving the body before."

"_I _did not even notice it, Holmes," Watson told him. "You can't expect--"

"You were all distracted by the macabre, by the idea of a poor young female being dead!" Sherlock accused. "You let yourselves be blinded by the superficial, by the _appearance _of it all. That is not my fault!"

"He said he does not blame you," Watson said gently. _Is the guilt bothering Sherlock? He's never seemed to care about appearing callous before._

"But he does!" Sherlock leaned against a pillar, head thrown back against it. He stared at the earthen ceilings above them, listening for the sounds of the street above. There were none, meaning they were quite a ways down. "He does, and you do."

"I most certainly do not, Holmes," Watson assured him. "Don't put words in my mouth."

Sherlock sighed, shutting his eyes. Watson moved closer to him, leaning down to look at his face fully. "Are you all right? You look awful."

"It has been a while since we have had such a case, and I was not prepared for the exertion," Sherlock admitted. He coughed, sniffed to clear his nostrils again. His eyes watered, and he rubbed at them. "I believe I took in more smoke than you two did, as well."

"You look cold."

"The rush of it has worn off, and we are dampened by the excess of sweat on our bodies," Sherlock explained. "Yes, I am cold."

Watson took off his coat and put it over Sherlock's smaller frame. Since his back was blocking Lestrade's view of the two, he leaned down and kissed Holmes' lips. The kiss lingered between them, chaste given their usual manner of affection.

_He looks worn, _Watson observed as their foreheads rested against one another. _This is why I wanted to convince him to consider a more easy future. The case has only just begun, and it seems clear we are in for a battle. Even the great Sherlock Holmes cannot do this forever. _

Sherlock gave Watson one more kiss, and then walked around him. "This is the room the cultists used in preparation for that ritual," he said. "It is not food stored in these containers, but combustibles. It seems the empty crates held arms and costume, as well. Most of the supplies has been taken. I assume Blackwood has moved it elsewhere, knowing we might chance upon this little stopping point of his. Again, the trail seems deliberate. Why leave behind anything at all? He is leading us."

"To our deaths, I would imagine," Watson said. "But why not set a trap here, as well?"

"A waste of supplies," Sherlock said. "He knew that only survivors of the altar explosion would make it down here, and obviously those would be fully on guard for more traps."

Lestrade stood. "Well, where do we go from here? There are several paths."

"Yes, there are." Sherlock crouched and began drawing in the dirt with a finger. He explained their exact location in the city, the approximate depth they were at, and where each tunnel would lead. Watson and Lestrade crouched down beside him, watching him map out the place.

"We will simply take the shortest," Sherlock said. "There is nothing more to be done tonight but to go home. Tomorrow, Lestrade, have your men search every single one of these tunnels, and station guard points deep within each. I will have my own things to do. With some luck, gentlemen, we will end this before another life is lost."

Sherlock glanced between the two. "You would both like that very much, I assume?" he added wryly.

With that, the detective led them to the tunnel he had decided upon. Watson and Lestrade exchanged a look, knowing Sherlock had been mocking them. Watson just shook his head, following Holmes, and Lestrade came after him. What else could they do but follow?

On the street, the three parted ways. Lestrade hailed a hansom to take him to the Yard to report, and Watson and Holmes took their own cab back to Baker Street. Sherlock fell asleep on Watson's shoulder inside, and Watson was loath to rouse him. He put an arm under him and half-dragged him into the house, ending up picking him up fully and carrying him up the stairs. The man sighed wearily, feeling more a servant than a lover.

Sherlock came to in the bedroom, finding himself cleaned up and half-undressed. Watson was removing his shoes now, and glanced up at him.

"How did you ever manage without me, Holmes?"

Sherlock smiled sleepily, running his hands through Watson's fair hair. He said nothing. In truth, he had managed just fine, since he'd had no other choice. Of course, he did not admit this, since Watson so relished Sherlock's supposed dependency on him.

"Lie down," Watson ordered once Holmes was in his night shirt. He was still dressed, and rolled his sleeves up. "No, no, on your stomach."

Sherlock eyed him warily. "Why?"

Watson laughed. "Don't be silly, I'm not going to spank you," he said, rolling Sherlock onto his stomach. "Did you think I was still cross?"

"I can never tell these days," Sherlock said. "You're so sensitive to things lately."

"I am at my wit's end with you, that's all," Watson explained. He fetched the rubbing alcohol, and sat on the edge of the bed. "It's a mood, I suppose. It will pass."

"But why the mood?" Sherlock asked, settling his head into a pillow. "I have seen you become morose over losing many patients before, but this is different. This 'mood' of yours runs deeper, it seems."

"It does." Watson began to soothe the liquid over the bruises lining Sherlock's bottom and upper thighs. "I can't explain it, Sherlock. It is everything you do not believe in: superstition, premonition, instinct, fear. But I can shake this black mood even less than I can explain it, I'm afraid."

"And I must suffer for it," sulked Sherlock.

"You suffer for your stubbornness and misplaced pride, Sherlock," Watson told him. He patted Sherlock's behind. "You know that."

"I know no such thing, but I was not referring to your wild fetishes, Watson."

Watson gave a soft, amused grunt. "To what were you referring, then?"

"Your recent habit of demeaning me in front of Lestrade," Sherlock said, dark eyes snapping with anger. He glared at Watson from the pillow. "I hate to threaten you, Doctor, but if you ever do that again--"

"I will not."

Sherlock looked up at him in surprise. "Oh. Oh, well then." He frowned. He had been prepared for an argument, braced himself for a few slaps on the behind, so this easy victory threw him completely. "Good."

"Sometimes I think you enjoy fighting with me," chuckled Watson. He turned Sherlock's face upwards by the chin. "You look so disappointed!"

Watson kissed him, sweetly, the smell of the alcohol on him. Sherlock brought his arms around the man's neck, drawing him down onto the bed with him.

"Mmm, wait, wait."

Watson tore himself away to undress for the night. Sherlock lay staring up at him, pondering. Did he like to argue? Well, arguments were a challenge, and he did enjoy challenges . . .

_I wonder how I let myself lose them all to him, _Sherlock thought. _No, no, we break even. I have his heart to control, he has my body. If anything, I come out ahead. If I wanted to end his role as disciplinarian, I could do it, but he will never break the hold I have on his heart._

Watson climbed into bed, and Sherlock lay on his chest as usual. They shared some kisses, but it was apparent they were both too exhausted for much else.

_This was all I wanted to do, _Watson thought, embracing Sherlock in his arms. _Hold him, shield him away from the world with me. I am such a hopeless fool for him! Ahh, but he feels so small in my arms like this . . . so vulnerable . . . After all these years, I **know **he is not (in fact, he is quite dangerous). Still, the body says one thing, the mind another._

Watson traced Sherlock's features with a finger softly. "You know, you are quite beautiful, Holmes."

"I always find it distinctly unnerving when you tell me that."

"Why?"

"Because I do not consider myself the slightest bit effeminate."

"You're not," Watson agreed. "Who says beauty must be feminine?"

Sherlock waved a hand. He was nodding off quickly, eyes half-closed. "The world, Doctor. Art. All beauty in the world originates with the flowing, curving grace of the feminine form, or the fine, delicate structure of the feminine face."

"Well, I will tell you that you are a beautiful man, then."

"The word still irritates me."

"All right, then, my _handsome _Holmes," laughed Watson, kissing the top of his head. "Goodnight, love."

"Goodnight, and please stay quiet," Sherlock murmured. "I have a very early morning tomorrow."

Watson frowned fretfully, but said nothing. He felt the extra weight of Sherlock's body when he fell into deep sleep mere minutes later. As he thought this, the morbid pangs of fear and premonition returned.

Watson's light eyes shot open. He stared into the darkness, tormented by the thought of losing his lover. _Why am I thinking this way? _he wondered in anguish. _I feel his heartbeat in my own chest, the heaving of his breathing, the race of his pulse-- He is here, and he is safe. He is so very **alive**. Why can't I simply accept that and stop all this needless worrying?_

Watson stroked the man's arm, kissed his shoulder. As tired as he was, he could not sleep. He spent much of the night holding onto Sherlock, trying to convince himself he was never going anywhere. Outside, he heard the rain finally spew forth from the sky, drenching the dark night.

**Chapter Three**

_**From the personal diaries of John H. Watson, M.D.**_

"_I awoke alone, as usual when Sherlock was on a case. I tried to calm my nerves by sleeping in, and forgoing coffee. Fortunately, Sherlock was not gone very long, and he had not needed a costume of any type this morning. He did not explain what he had done with his morning, but he was back in time to lunch with me. He seemed troubled by something, but also refused to explain this. I wish he would let me in on his investigation process, his thoughts, but I believe he keeps his theories to himself for fear of having them disproved later. This is one of the ways he managed to always be right: he keeps his hypothesis to himself until they have come together infallibly._

"_Sherlock's foul mood was compounded by a visit from Lestrade. To the dismay of us all, he reported that another ritual murder had taken place last night! During the very time frame that we were investigating the church, 'Lord Blackwood' had been conducting another disgusting sacrifice. _

"_Sherlock stormed out in the middle of the conversation, leaving me to excuse him to Lestrade. I spoke to the good officer for a while, though neither of us dared say a word about Holmes behind his back this time, and then he left. Again, I am alone._

"_I have seen this kind of unrest settle upon Holmes before, and it never bodes well. Usually, it comes on when he realizes his adversary of the moment has a functioning mind of his own. The darker Sherlock's mood, the more clever the villain. _

"_I believe I hear him now. I hope he has found some sign of Blackwood's stupidity, so he might be a bit less angry."_

The door slammed, and Watson's pen slipped. Ink spilled across the paper, and he sighed, mopping it up with a piece of paper. It took him a while to get the mess cleaned up, but he was not eager to see Sherlock, anyway. It sounded as if the man had come home even more--

"Watson!"

Sherlock barged into Watson's room. "Doctor, put all that away," he ordered, grabbing Watson by the arm and pulling him to his feet. "Come, _come_!"

"Come where, Sherlock?" Watson asked, forcing the annoyance out of his voice. "Where have you been?"

"We are going to the second crime scene," Sherlock said. He released Watson, fetching him his hat, coat, and walking stick. He handed these to him, and then went to pocket some of his own supplies.

"Sherlock." Watson put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder to stop him. Sherlock went to move past, but he took his face in both hands, holding him still and looking into his eyes. Sherlock looked at him impatiently, his eyes wide and alert.

"Yes?" he asked impatiently. "_Yes_?"

Watson knew it would be no use tying to persuade him to slow down or be careful. He bent down to kiss him, and then smiled wearily. "Let's go," he said, putting his hat on.

Sherlock was taciturn during the entire cab ride. Though he was aware of Watson's concern, he pushed all thoughts outside the case to the far recesses of his great mind. There was no time to worry about petty personal matters, not now. This case was going to be one of the big ones.

_There will be time for intimacy later, _Sherlock assured himself. _When the case is over, and Watson is detailing it in one of his silly books, there will be time. There always is._

_There always is._

Thus taking his lover and life for granted, Sherlock ignored Watson the rest of the way.

The second ritual had taken place in a large mausoleum. Sherlock had noted the obvious pattern of death and religion in Blackwood's choice of stages, but other than that, there was no symmetry in his choice of location. Again, Sherlock had the nagging suspicion that any trail left was deliberate, any hint about Blackwood revealing only what he chose revealed. _Meaning, _Sherlock thought, _that he remains a significant step ahead of us—of **me**_.

"Where are the police?" Watson asked as they approached the mausoleum. A fine, prickly-cold mist of rain was falling, and the night was dark. Large black birds were perched in the branches of the surrounding trees, seeming to watch the two men with uncanny alertness.

"I sent them on one of the less important leads," Sherlock said. "It is imperative I have this scene to myself for a moment."

Watson gazed around uneasily. He did not like the idea of heading in here without backup.

"We do have a couple of men," Sherlock told him, reading his discomfort. He pointed to two spots on opposite ends of the mausoleum. "There, and there. Did you think Lestrade would let me really have a crime scene all to myself? He needs some men to give credit to, should I solve the case, after all."

"Mm," Watson agreed.

Inside the mausoleum, the air was cool and smelled of wet stone. The body of the sacrifice had been removed, but there was dried blood staining an open casket at the back center of the room. The same depictions of ancient symbols were drawn around the area. Sherlock took great interest in the large pentacle drawn in the middle of the floor; the first thing he did was draw a diagram of it using a compass to tell which direction each point corresponded to. He was on his knees tracing it on the floor, causing Watson to have to step around him.

Watson glanced around the room, wishing his eyes could read detail the way Holmes' could. All he could see was a stately old crypt glowing by the light of the electric torches, and the desecration the cult had brought to it. The sight of the bloody stone casket chilled him, but he came closer to examine it. He read the inscription softly to himself, "_Memento mori_. Holmes, do you know the phrase?"

Sherlock had just stood up from the floor, and he lifted his luminous dark eyes to Watson. "It means, 'Remember that you will die'."

Watson put both hands over the casket, crouched down at the base. "Sherlock, this isn't genuine stone, more like a cheap cement. This was brought here recently."

"Open it up."

"Are you certain?" Watson asked uneasily. "Remember the altar trap at the church, and--"

"Open it up."

"Sherlock--"

"You can't burn stone, Watson," Sherlock murmured, coming over to the casket. He placed his hands on the cover confidently, but warned, "You might want to stand back a bit."

"Sherlock!"

But the detective was already lifting the lid. Watson stood back, an arm on Sherlock's shoulder in case he needed to pull him back. It turned out to be an unnecessary action, as Sherlock himself jumped back the moment the lid was lifted off. The two men backed away slowly, watching the casket warily.

They were distracted from the curls of smoke raising from within it by a resounding slam. They whipped around, and found the doors to the mausoleum had been shut. Watson rushed to them, trying them, but Sherlock just shook his head, knowing it was useless.

"I told you it was trapped!" Watson cried, storming back to Sherlock. "I told you!"

Sherlock ignored him, looking all around the room.

"You knew, didn't you?" Watson sighed. "Why would you allow--"

"Shhh, Watson," Sherlock hushed him impatiently. He walked around the small space. "If my deduction is correct, this trap is not intended to kill us."

"_An astute observation, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."_

Watson whirled around in a circle, searching for the source of the voice. He removed his service revolver from his jacket. Sherlock stayed still, but his eyes darted around wildly.

"_I must say, it is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance. There is something inherently fitting about the meeting of the greatest intellectual mind in the country with the land's greatest spiritual presence."_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I find it more ironic than fitting, Blackwood."

"_That is 'Lord Blackwood', Mr. Holmes, a title you shall accept soon enough."_

"Yes, I'm sure," Holmes said dryly. He saw Watson still looking around for the voice, and, frustrated, grabbed him by the arm and held him in place. "The voice is being channeled through vents, and bounced around the room by the acoustics, do you see?"

"Ah, yes." Watson cleared his throat. "Of course."

"_You are cynical. A man of science, yes, Mr. Holmes?" _The voice laughed quietly, coldly. _"Ha, ha, ha. I pity you."_

"And why is that?" Sherlock asked casually, leading Watson back to the casket. He began trying to push it aside, slowly so as not to make much sound. He knew Blackwood could hear them, but not see them.

"_You are a man bankrupt of a soul, Holmes. You put all your arrogant faith in yourself, failing to see the higher powers coalescing around you. How sad that such a mind limits itself to the mundane, small world of tangibility, when there is so much more, so many things you blind yourself to."_

"Such as your great mystical talents, mm?" Sherlock went on cynically. He used the cover of his voice to scrape the casket aside further, with Watson's help.

"_Such as so many things. Gods, Devils, and the powers of those who dare take control over them. I know you believe you shall best me, as you have bested so many mortal fiends, but an empty machine such as yourself could never hope to overcome my power."_

Sherlock bristled at the word 'machine'. Watson was surprised to see that even after all this time, the label still bothered him.

"_What of your partner, Doctor Watson?"_

Watson scowled. "No Satanic power guides your hand, you monster!" he called to Blackwood. "This is nothing but butchery and cheap conjurer's tricks!"

"_Can it be you have spent too long with your dear Holmes, Doctor? Has his apathetic science-worship bereaved you of your humanity as well? Are you also without faith?"_

"I have faith, but not in a villain like you," Watson said. Sherlock tugged his sleeve, but he went on, "You are a common murderer, Blackwood! A farce!"

Sherlock sighed, arms crossed. As he had expected, there was a hidden trap door leading into the bowels of the earth beneath the false casket. He would have gone right down, if Watson were not busy with this fruitless argument.

"_A farce you say? We shall see how false my power is when it consumes you, Dr. Watson. Perhaps that will inspire a little emotion in Sherlock Holmes?"_

"You antagonized him," Sherlock said softly.

"I did," Watson replied unapologetically.

Sherlock motioned to the opened trap door. "Shall we?"

"Let's."

They dropped down the rope ladder into the tunnel system; it was identical to the ones they had traversed the other night. Sherlock took out his gun in one hand, and opened up the map he had drawn on in the other. Watson still had his revolver in hand.

"He is down here, isn't he?"

Sherlock nodded distractedly, staring and staring at the map.

"Then let's go get him."

"Wait!" Sherlock grabbed him by the jacket. "It would be a fool's chase, Doctor. The man is far ahead of us, and he knows these routes better than we do. We must cut him off before his next ritual."

"How will we accomplish that when we don't even know-- Wait. You _do _know, don't you?" Watson smiled hopefully. "You've figured out his next move?"

"Yes, but that means little," Sherlock said. "His predictability is contrived. He _knew _I would see the pattern. Therefore, he will either break it, or face us with the advantage when we come for him. Either way, not a cause for celebration."

The two men hurried through the dank tunnels. Sherlock showed Watson the map he had marked. A pentacle was drawn on it, two dark dots representing the murders placed just at the tip of the top point of the star and the tip of the eastern point. Sherlock had made lighter dots at the remaining three points of the star, at locations he alleged Blackwood would eventually hold a ritual.

"The order is going clockwise, you see?" he explained. "However, he might change that now that we are onto him. I will have Lestrade station men around all these places, but--"

Watson raised his eyebrows. "But what, Sherlock?"

"If Blackwood is down here, whom do you supposed shut us into the mausoleum?" Sherlock pointed out. "Remember that I said I had two police on lookout? I pointed them out to you."

"Yes, I remember." Watson paused. "Oh my Lord! You aren't saying--"

"I am," Sherlock said gravely. "The police were compromised, and there is no telling if it was a single incident. This ascertains that Blackwood is indeed the nobleman of the same name, and his wealth and influence thus spread far. There will be no relying on the police."

"Looks like it is up to us."

"That it is."

Watson glanced down at him. "Are you well, Sherlock? You seem anxious."

"I am anxious, reasonably so," Sherlock said. "You should be as well, Watson. He has marked you."

"I do not fear him."

Sherlock stopped him by the arm. "You are too emotional, Watson," he chided him.

Watson tugged his arm away. "I apologize, but I simply cannot stop caring that innocents are being brutally slaughtered."

"Watson!"

Watson stormed on ahead. _Death is everywhere, and I tire of it, _he thought morosely. _I . . . I **am** too emotional. I can't help it, not with my nightmares and all this-this **darkness**. I'm . . . I'm spread too thin. I thought I could handle another case, and I desperately want to finish this damned Blackwood, but . . . _

Sherlock caught up to Watson, but said nothing. Watson's depression had spread to him like a virus, and now the detective was downhearted. He could feel his longtime partner's despondency, and he was astute enough to determine the cause. It was then that he realized that he had, indeed, formed a strong professional bond with Watson. The thought of losing his doubtful, grumpy, sentimental, loyal partner made him feel completely wretched.

_I knew I should not have taken this case, _Sherlock thought. It was a rare thing for him to regret taking on an interesting case, but this one time he allowed it. Nothing, not even the most complex case in the world, would be worth losing Watson. As much as he had always known separation was inevitable, even this tiny taste of losing Watson, only professionally, tore at his heart.

Sherlock suddenly stopped Watson at an intersection of several tunnels. It was a storage room like the one they had used to rest last night, but this one was not empty. Cultists in robes were interspersed with ruffian-looking men, and they were moving equipment up and down a ladder to the surface. There was no leader in sight, however, certainly no Lord Blackwood.

"The coward," snarled Watson. "He must be above, preparing the ritual. Well, as you said earlier, shall we?"

Sherlock's eyes surveyed the crowd of men, counting them, assessing their strengths, weaknesses, and the ways they might group together in a fight. He nodded. "Let's."

They split up, taking the gang by surprise. Sherlock was relieved to see Watson's mood did not affect his fighting ability. In fact, Sherlock noted as Watson took down a man behind him with an elbow to the ribcage as he simultaneously shot a man across the room with his revolver, it might have made him more effective.

As the fighting was winding down, a scream sounded from up above.

"I'm going on ahead," Watson called to Sherlock.

Sherlock was wrestling with a large man. "Wait!" An arm went around his neck, and he struggled. "Watson!"

Watson was already halfway up the ladder.

"Damn," Sherlock murmured. His eyes shut briefly for lack of air. He drew back, against the man, to take the pressure off his throat. Finding his footing again, he reached back and poked the man in the eyes. With the grip on him weakened, he slipped out, and was able to quickly disable the man.

Watson had climbed the ladder, and found himself in an empty chapel. A single white candle burned at the altar, but there were no cultists, no victim, and again, no Blackwood. Watson looked around in dismay. Who had screamed?

"Hello?"

His voice resonated in the empty chapel. Silence met it. Watson walked further into the room, calling again. This time, he thought he heard a small, muffled sound. He followed the sound, which came from behind a pillar. The firelight did not reach back here, and he could scarcely see a thing.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Watson said softly. "Please." He reached a hand out. "Please, you can trust me."

"Watson!"

Watson turned around to see Sherlock running towards him. It was all he saw before he felt an impact against his chest, and all the breath went out of him. Before the searing pain even registered, he was knocked to his knees by the force of it. Then, he felt the deep, tightening hurt, and the warmth of seeping blood.

Sherlock stopped running, his mouth ajar. He wanted to scream, but he could only manage to mouth the doctor's name. He staggered over to his friend, who had fallen onto his side, and turned him over. "Watson," he whispered, cradling the man in his arms. "Doctor. Doctor!"

Watson was still conscious, but was in much pain. "Sh-Sherlock." He reached up, clasped the detective's hand in his own. "S-sorry . . . I'm sorry . . . "

Sherlock's eyes had welled with tears. "Watson. No."

"Listen to me, Sherlock," Watson said, coughing. He reached up and took Sherlock by the shirt, drawing his face down, close to his own. "He is here. He is the one who shot me. Find him, Sherlock."

"No, I can't leave you!" Sherlock cried, uncharacteristically frantic. He lifted his hands and stared at them in shock, Watson's blood staining his fingers. "I'm not going to leave you."

"End it, Sherlock, end it now," begged Watson.

"No!" Sherlock yelled. "No, no! I won't lose you, Watson!" He bent his face down and softly brushed his lips across Watson's. "I won't lose you."

"Sherlock, I . . . [cough] . . . I am already . . . "

"No!" Sherlock sobbed. "No, no, no, no."

Even as he cried, he was opening the man's jacket and tearing open his shirt. He ripped off his own sleeve, winding it around the bullet wound. Watson cried out in agony as he pressed the fabric tight into the injury to stop the bleeding.

"Hold this tight, Doctor," Sherlock told him. "Hold it there!"

Watson grunted in pain, but was able to put enough pressure on it.

"I'm going to-to get another doctor, Doctor. I-I . . . Here." He gave Watson his gun. "Hold this. Stay sharp, Watson. You'll be fine."

Watson smiled weakly. _Poor Sherlock. God, I . . . I'm dying, and all I can think of is him. I will lose nothing in this world except him. No one shall lose me except him. My entire life summed up . . . by that man . . . that beautiful . . . man . . . _

The shadows moved and stirred. Watson looked across the aisle, aiming the gun. His hand was shaky, and he could hardly keep his arm up. He expected that one more shot, the end of him. A tear ran down his cheek, and he shut his eyes with a sigh.

As he lowered his arm in defeat, he suddenly found another arm supporting his. A soft, thin hand clutched his own around the gun, and held it steady. It took a lot of effort to open his eyes again, but Watson managed to look up. His vision was blurry, his eyes half-closed, but he saw her.

The woman's face was tear-stained and fearful, but she held herself in a dignified calm. She was of a simple, pure, graceful beauty, so much the lady . . .

Watson felt his thoughts slipping. Was this an angel? But she felt real. She felt so very real. He wanted to ask something, anything, to speak . . . but he couldn't, he couldn't . . .

Mary Morstan had been in the chapel to light a candle for her father, as she always did on this date. The altar had suddenly moved, and she had run to hide in the shadows. Strange men had conferred by the altar, but she could not hear them. To her horror, they had a woman gagged and bound with them. She could make out some words, such as 'ritual' and 'the next sacrifice'. At one point, the tall man that seemed to be in charge of them had un-gagged the woman, and she had screamed. She had been knocked unconscious and brought out of the chapel. Then, the rest of the men left through the trap door beneath the altar, and the leader had hidden himself on the other side of the room. Terrified, Mary had remained stock still in the shadows, knowing she would be slaughtered if found.

Then, this man had appeared. His voice was strong, and so very comforting, but she had remained hidden out of fear. She wished she had warned him. It was all she could do to face death with him now, at his side. She held him, as he fell unconscious, squeezing his hand in her own. How strange nature was, to bring two complete strangers together so intimately.

When the doors began to open again, she fled back into the shadows. She did not yet know who Watson or his strange, dark-haired friend were, and was still on edge from the events she had witnessed.

Sherlock had returned with police and a doctor. The police went to search the premises, and Watson was taken away. Mary slipped out of the chapel unseen, and watched them take the man away. She wanted to follow, but the black-haired man seemed very protective, and she feared him a little. Instead, she hailed a cab to go home. Still, no matter how hard she tried, she could not shake the image of that dying man from her mind, or stop her hands from shaking.

Neither could Sherlock, who paced the hospital halls incessantly as Watson was tended to. He pulled at his disheveled hair, trying to stop his mind from thinking, thinking, thinking. Nonetheless, it told him the bullet would have missed any vital organs, but the blood loss was so great that the survival margin was very slim. It told him Blackwood had known exactly who would barge ahead into his trap, and had counted on Sherlock being too distraught to chase him even being so close. Blackwood must know how strong the relationship between the men was, and he had played it against them mercilessly, and cunningly.

Sherlock felt lost, and bitterly defeated. He knew he should have chased Blackwood when he had the chance, but how else _could _he have acted? Love was irrational. Love was . . . indefatigably irrational.

The doctors removed the bullet, but they could not guarantee that Watson would make it through the night. They gave Sherlock a moment alone with him. Sherlock entered in a rushing pace, but stopped at the end of the bed. He felt his insides quake at the sight of Watson there, so pale and his breathing stertorous. Sherlock had to lean on the iron railing of the bed for support. His knuckles went white gripping it.

"I want to say everything to you," he murmured. With a breath, he came around beside the bed and sat in the chair placed there. "Everything that I . . . can never say. But I still, I . . . I can't."

Sherlock bowed his head, tears streaming down his face. He looked worn, but not so haggard as Watson. He mused that Watson had not looked so worn since they had first met, and he was a young man diminished by illness and the hardships of war. In a way, Sherlock had dragged him back into another kind of war, thrust him back into the grasp of darkness and violence. The result was the same, perhaps worse this time.

_He doesn't deserve this, _Sherlock thought, grasping Watson's hand tightly in his own. _He never asked for this. He . . . He followed me into it, and he stayed . . . for me. Oh, he has a perverse interest in it, a talent for being a soldier of sorts, but . . . I have taken great advantage of that. I have kept him and driven him . . . and now . . ._

Sherlock leaned his head down on Watson's shoulder and began to cry softly.

_I saw it coming, I saw it all coming. I kept on. I shall keep on, even if he survives. The arguments, the beatings, the fights . . . I've deserved it all, and it's never been enough. Never. I do deserve to lose him. But he can't leave me. He can't! I don't know what I would do without him._

Sherlock sobbed loudly, lifting his head to look at Watson's face. The strength of his misery shocked and scared him. How could he have let himself fall so deeply in love? How could he suffer as greatly over this one man? It was not worth it. _Love _was not worth it.

Feeling wretched for this train of thought, Sherlock stood and backed away from the bed. He needed cold, hard work as desperately as a drowning man needed air. Besides, Watson had told him to end it. End it he would.

Almost as if he were punishing himself, Sherlock threw himself back into the case. With his lover's blood still fresh on his hands and clothes, he returned to the streets of London, to search out the odious Blackwood.

**Chapter Four**

Watson awoke expecting to see Sherlock. He was surprised to see, instead, the gentle woman from the chapel. He felt a lack of warmth on his hand suddenly, and realized she had been holding it. The lady blushed slightly, bowing her head shyly. Though he felt physically wrecked, his intrigue overcame the pain.

"Ma'am, I—" He choked, coughed.

The woman took a pitcher of water and poured some in a glass. She helped him into a half-sitting position, and held the glass to his lips for him to drink. "No, please don't strain yourself on my behalf," she said nervously. "I feel terrible enough, I--"

"You were at the chapel last night," Watson managed to say slowly. He took the glass of water from her and took another drink.

"Yes, for all the good I did there," the woman said bitterly. "It is my fault. What happened to you was entirely my fault!"

"I'm certain that isn't so," Watson said gently. "Please, calm yourself, Miss--?"

"Morstan," the lady introduced herself. She drew a breath before finishing, "Mary Morstan."

"Miss Morstan," Watson said. The name sounded elegant to him, and he mentally went over her moniker: _Mary. Mary Morstan._ "I recall your helping me. For all we know, your being beside me may have saved my life, and you risked your own to do it."

"I should have warned you," Mary insisted. "You sounded so kind, but still I distrusted you. I was a coward."

"I refuse to believe that," Watson said. When Mary started to protest, he interrupted, "Now, now. Why don't you tell me what happened?"

Mary eyed him. "Are you sure you are up to it?"

"Yes, I think so."

"No, I—I must fetch a doctor first," Mary said, standing. "When you've been tended and you have food, then I shall explain."

"But I--"

"You must be taken care of," Mary said, gentle but firm. "Nothing is more important than that. You have been asleep for three days, Mr. Watson."

"Three days!"

"Yes. Now wait here, please. I will bring the doctor."

Watson nodded, and she left. His mind went back to the chapel, and he was stricken by the experience so strongly that he nearly vomited.

_I nearly died._

Feeling weak, Watson sank back into his pillow. His life went flashing before his eyes, a hectic montage of chaos. No, no, there had been more before the chaos, before the war. Back, far back, there had been family and love. He had been young and proper, an idealistic gentleman. What had happened?

_My God, what has happened to me?_

Watson felt old, much older than his years. Everything had happened so fast . . . Had his life ended, there it was, all of it, gone by so quickly . . .

_Gone._

_And who would notice? Who would care? Only Sherlock . . . _

How could one so in love feel so lonely? Was there a point in love where you became so much a part of the other that you lost yourself? He was lonely, but was he only missing himself? Who _was _his 'self'?

_Who am I?_

_Sherlock's lover. And that is it. That is the only reason I have kept going all these years: to be Sherlock's lover. I was dying three nights ago, and I only thought of him. I was losing **my life **and he was the only thing I thought of. Because he **is** my life. _

Watson sighed heavily, shutting his eyes. The memories of his childhood, his father, then the war, then Sherlock, all washed over him, but he was too exhausted, too pained, to think coherently. He lay still, between consciousness and the unconscious.

Mary returned with the doctors. Watson proved the old saying "doctors make the worst patients" true, waving off their fussing and impatient with their examination. Mary seemed slightly amused, but she turned her face, as he was half-undressed for most of it. A tray with food was given to Watson after he was cleaned up, and he sat in bed to eat it. Mary returned to the chair beside his bed.

"Go on," Watson urged her. "If you don't mind, that is?"

"Not at all, sir." Mary nodded. "All right. I'll tell you what happened. I apologize, but much of it was beyond my understanding. All I know is, it was black business in that sacred place last night . . . "

Mary explained her view of the night's events, as Watson listened. Though he was wolfing down his food, his eyes never left her.

"It was the least I could do for you," Mary said of holding his gun steady when he was left alone. "My cowardice landed you here, nearly let you die. It was all I could think to do for you."

"You know, I thought you were an angel," Watson mused. "I took your tears of fright to be sorrow for me, I'm afraid."

"At that point, they were."

Watson looked up at her in surprise. _For me? This poor, gentle soul . . . that she would cry for a man like me--_

_A man like me._

The thought caused Watson to frown introspectively. Again, that question nagged at him. _What have I become?_

"You must think me a sentimental fool," Mary said self-consciously.

Watson reached out and took her hand in his own. "Believe me, Miss Morstan, I am the last person to jeer at compassion."

Mary drew a breath, her eyes flitting to their entwined hands. Realizing how improper it was, Watson removed his. Then, he felt a crushing despair as he saw what his hand had brushed against. Her ring finger was adorned, very formally adorned.

Mary looked at the engagement ring, and her face colored. The unspoken question in Watson's eyes ("You're engaged?") and the answer evident upon her face hung on the air like a winter chill. Watson felt hopes his mind had not even fully formulated come crashing down around him, and he wondered at himself.

"I was so distraught to see you bleeding to death." Mary shook her head. "I wanted to follow you, but your friend seemed quite protective. So, I've been coming here in secret. I-I've been worried, and I blame myself."

"It is not your fault, dear lady," Watson said earnestly. "Believe me, what transpired last night was solely the fault of the villain you witnessed orchestrating it. Your presence as a witness saved my life, I assure you. For whatever reason, I suppose Blackwood felt it was not worth the trouble of shooting two people."

Mary shut her eyes, the thought causing her to shudder.

"It made more sense once I found out who you were," she said. She smiled at him shyly. "I was so shocked when they told me you are _the _Doctor Watson of Baker Street."

"_The _Doctor Watson?" Watson echoed in amusement. He chuckled. "Ha, ha, well, I can't say I have ever been given that much import before."

"Oh, but you are an urban legend of sorts," Mary insisted. She seemed to warm with excitement. "You and your partner, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I have read about all your adventures, you know, every one of them, in the papers."

"Really?"

"Why, yes," Mary beamed. "I must admit, I had my doubts about the truths surrounding them. The cases all seemed so very outré, yet so romantic."

"Mmm, yes, they were exactly that," Watson said. His smile faded as his mind turned back to those cases, and thus, back to Sherlock. "I'm afraid the romance wanes after a while, though."

"I suppose it would," Mary agreed thoughtfully. "The youthful enthrallment of romance never does hold up well once reality sets in. It pales in comparison to the stronger truisms: love, life . . . death."

Watson looked at her again, into her eyes. Somehow, she understood. She understood all the things he was struggling with. The look of knowing was there in her kindly eyes, a wisdom earned through experience. She was troubled now, it seemed, troubled for someone other than herself. If only he could ask, but that would not be proper.

_Who am I to ask anything of her? Oh, it galls me. It galls me so much I almost wish I had never laid eyes upon her. We are such different creatures, from such different lives. A woman on the verge of beginning her married life, the rest of her life. A man living as he did almost twenty years ago, living a juvenile rush of adrenaline and danger and tawdry sex . . . I've become a hypocrite, to her, to Sherlock, to myself. Yet I can't break from it, can I? I am trapped in my lot._

Watson looked at her. _And she . . . she is promised to hers._

"Well, you are obviously getting well quickly," Mary smiled, nodding at the empty plates. "I should be on my way. I'm certain word will get to your friend soon."

"Yes, I suppose it will."

Mary stood. She briefly put a hand on Watson's shoulder. "Good—Good luck to you, Mr. Watson."

"Take care, Miss Morstan. And thank you."

With one last, small smile, the lady left. That inexplicable sense of loss washed over the man again, and he lay back in bed, exhaling. He stared thoughtlessly for a while, and then began to collect himself.

_I have faced death before. Countless times. What is different this time? Let me count back to when this all started. It was not even a week ago, yet it seems a lifetime ago. That song playing on the phonograph that evening, yes . . . that was what started it. I began thinking about time, how much time had passed. It was about a month after my birthday, and I was feeling old, reflective . . . That song, that devil's trill . . . that was what started this._

_Then, the disease outbreak brought scores of sufferers into the hospital. Watching them die day after day was wearing on my nerves. On one day, we lost half the sick ward. That was when I came home to find Sherlock looking dead on the sofa, in the grip of those damned drugs of his. I tried to reason with him, I tried to explain my fear, I tried everything I could think of. . . and I ended up merely taking my frustration out on him. I beat him, because I was unable to do anything else. I am too weak to punish him in any way that would matter to him, and he does not respect me enough to **listen **to my advice._

_I was still struggling with my impotency when Lestrade mentioned the Blackwood case the next night. I was trying to convince myself I had some power over Holmes when I scolded him in Lestrade's company, and coerced him into taking this damned case. I also thought the excitement would distract me from my morbid considerings. _

_All it has done is make me realize that there is truth in my imaginings, and sense in my fatigue. I can't live like this, not anymore. No matter how it may still call to me, or how I love and worry for Sherlock, I . . . I almost **died** living this way. It has to end._

_It **must end**._

Watson was still thinking along these lines about a half hour later, when Sherlock Holmes came into the room. Watson sat up, though it sent pain shooting through his side. Sherlock moved forward very quickly, but stopped himself shortly at the foot of the bed.

Sherlock fidgeted, lightly tapping his palms against the iron railing. "Doctor, I . . . I'm so, well, I . . . " He sniffed, lifted his face in that manner he had, indignant against his own emotions. "I'm glad to see you. Alive."

"Well, I am glad to be alive, Sherlock."

Watson smiled, and Sherlock took it as an invitation. The man went around the bed and embraced his friend. His grip was so tender, so loving, that Watson felt all his doubts submerging in the warmth of their reunion.

_Damn it all, but every time he holds me with all this need, all this desire . . . I fall for it every single time._

_And out there is a world turning without me. A world, a man . . . a man marrying a gentlewoman like Mary._

Sherlock drew back, frowning slightly. Something was different, but he, for once, could not tell what. He ran a hand through Watson's hair, and held him by his face. "Are you all right?"

Watson wanted to say 'yes', but something stopped him. _I am not all right, am I? Something has changed, I . . . I've changed._

Instead of replying, Watson kissed him. It was a desperate, despaired kiss, and he then leaned his forehead against Holmes'. _Should I tell him? How can I add to his troubles? From the look of him, he's been drinking, fighting, and has not yet solved the case. It would be selfish of me to bog him down with my own worries, but . . . if I don't now, I won't ever have the resolve to. I melt into his love, it's like my own personal narcotic: a sweet addiction. _

"Watson?"

"Sherlock, listen, I . . . I'm afraid that I have come to a decision," Watson said slowly. He sat Sherlock down on the edge of the bed beside himself, rubbing his arm lovingly. "This life, I—I can't live it anymore."

"You mean, you wanted to die?"

"You know that is not what I meant," Watson said impatiently. He hated it when the brilliant Holmes played dumb to stall an uncomfortable conversation. "This life. Our life. Look at what it's done to me." Watson took Sherlock's face in both hands. "Look at what it's done to you."

Sherlock's eyes avoided Watson's gaze.

"The future, Sherlock," Watson reminded him. "_Our _future. Don't you see how precious it is now? Don't you?" He drew Sherlock into his arms, kissing his face, his neck. "It was almost stolen from us. Now do you see what has been preoccupying my mind these past days? What I am so afraid of?"

"But, you're still here, Watson," Sherlock pointed out softly. He drew out of the embrace, touched Watson's face along the lips. "You're here, and we're-we're both fine."

"Fine? Really?" Watson took Sherlock by the wrist and tugged up his sleeve. A telltale, tiny red mark showed a recent injection. "Oh, Sherlock." His fingers squeezed Sherlock's wrist tightly. "_Sherlock_."

"It's the case, that's all," grumbled Sherlock, yanking his arm away. He rubbed his wrist. "I needed some heightening of my awareness. Blackwood has vanished, and I am--"

Sherlock's lips tightened into a line. His pride would not allow him to admit to being stuck.

"Excuses, always excuses," Watson said wearily, rubbing his head. "Sherlock, never mind the why, never mind it! Just _see _it for what it is already! I'm done. I can't do anymore, and I almost died before I realized my limit. Do you think you're above such human failings? Do you think it will never happen to you?"

"I don't think about it. I live in the moment."

"In the moment! Yes, you can so easily see the moment with that razor-sharp clarity," Watson said bitterly. "You see the moment, and you can work backwards from it to see the past, but you are blind to the future, Holmes!"

Sherlock stared at his hands sullenly. This was the reunion he had expected, but wished against. He could feel the stir of fate changing, pushing them off that precipice he had secretly always known the future held. His mind analyzed the outcomes, trying to logically find the best way to diffuse the situation. His heart railed against it, telling him to throw off all the layers of detached intelligence and pride, to just beg and cry and fight it with all he had. The agony was piercing, but not so much as his terror.

_I can't lose you, Watson. I can't. I won't. I won't lose you._

"Death is the future!"

"Death is everyone's future, Doctor, you know that!" Sherlock shot back fiercely. He stood from the bed, pacing, tugging at his black hair. "Damn it! I know what you've been through, and I am sorry. I should have stopped you from racing ahead. It was my fault!" He faced Watson. "Blame me. Blame me! But don't blame such myths as fate and premonition!"

"I blame myself alone, Sherlock," Watson said.

Sherlock stared at him. Were those tears in the man's eyes?

"I've forced myself to be blind as you are, to follow your precarious life," Watson went on. "I refused to accept what was right in front of me. But no longer, Sherlock."

Sherlock crossed his arms, angry and hurting. "And what does that mean?"

"It means that . . . that I must end this," Watson said certainly.

Sherlock felt his heart pounding, and he shut his eyes. Not those words, not--

"I can't accompany you on your cases any longer."

Sherlock opened one eye. "Is that all?"

Watson scowled. "What do you mean! Did you hear me, man?"

Sherlock realized his mistake, coughed. "I meant, erm, I--"

"You thought I was going to leave you."

Sherlock scratched the back of his neck. "Something along those lines."

Watson laughed, reaching out to him. He pulled the thin, short man close by the coat, and sat him on the edge of the bed again. "Sherlock," he murmured, kissing his cheek. "I love you. I'll always love you."

"Yes."

"And I don't want to leave you, ever," Watson said, looking into Sherlock's eyes. He smiled, doing his best to smooth down Sherlock's wild hair. "There are many things we need to discuss, but . . . we will face it all together. We shall plan the future together."

Sherlock smiled, though the words worried him.

"Perhaps we will spend some time out in the country, and then . . . then, well, I believe it's time we left London."

Sherlock drew a breath. "Watson--"

"It's only a city, Holmes," Watson said. "You can still consult, you've corresponded through the post on plenty of cases. You can wire Europe, America. But we won't be here, in the thick of it. No more wild danger, no more violence and battle. Come now, doesn't that sound nice?"

"No, it sounds boring," Sherlock said glumly. He forced a smile. "But as you said, we shall discuss it. Later. When you're better."

"Sherlock, I am not hysterical or delirious," Watson said firmly. "I'm seriously--"

"I know, I know," Sherlock hushed him. He was standing from the bed, obviously trying to make a fast exit. "It's all right, Watson. I understand."

"No, you're trying to escape." Watson grabbed Sherlock by the sleeve to stop him. Their eyes met, and it struck them how the roles each played in the gesture usually were suddenly reversed. "You want to avoid talking about it until I forget the subject entirely."

"You shouldn't upset yourself, Doctor."

"Upset my--!" Watson echoed incredulously. "Sherlock, damn it! Can't you take a thing I say seriously? Why the hell-- Why the hell won't you _listen _to me!"

He threw a glass across the room, and Sherlock flinched.

"I've gone through hell with you, for you, because of you!" Watson shouted. He climbed down from the bed with effort, holding his side. "I've given up the world for you, Sherlock! Only for you!"

Sherlock watched him warily.

"Can't you even consider doing one thing for me?"

"I will consider it," Sherlock hushed him, trying to lead him back to bed. "I swear, I will. But lie down, Doctor, it isn't good for your health."

"Damn my health!" grunted Watson, shaking Sherlock off. "Holmes, you're not. You're not considering it. You're trying to placate me."

Unable to deny it, Sherlock said nothing.

"Don't I deserve one consideration from you?" Watson asked. "Don't I deserve something? Some peace?"

Sherlock turned his face. "Watson, I—I am listening to you. I understand, I do."

"No, you don't!" Watson snapped. "How could you? You've never laid dying . . . and thought only of another." He took Sherlock by the shoulders. "I thought only of you, Sherlock. Do you understand? My life is yours, my entire being . . . is only yours."

Sherlock shut his eyes over tears. "Watson, I . . . "

"I love you." Watson kissed him, and tears streamed down his own face. "I love you," he whispered, "too much."

Sherlock embraced him, but he felt lost. What could he do or say? What did the man want to hear? What good would saying anything do? It all was what it was.

Watson was outgrowing him. He was a bird flying against the cage bars, just having noticed the open sky outside. It was only up to his strength now, whether he could force himself out of the cage.

_God, I hate symbolism, _Sherlock thought bitterly as the analogy crossed his mind.

"But I won't die for you," Watson said, drawing his face back; it was damp with fallen tears, pale and worn. "Nor will I sit back and watch you die for nothing."

Watson sat back in the bed, and held Sherlock in his arms. They could have been back at their home on Baker Street. Sherlock clung to the man, trying to forget everything past and present save their closeness.

"I do love you, as well, Watson," Sherlock told him. "You know that, don't you?"

"I know."

"Do you know how difficult it is, even now, to say those words?" Sherlock asked, looking up at him. "Do you know what it's taken to allow myself to love you?"

"I know, but Sherlock . . . it isn't enough anymore," Watson said quietly. "You're going to have to prove it, Holmes. You have to _do something _for me already, instead of distracting me and getting me to back down."

Sherlock was quiet.

"Otherwise, I . . . I don't know." Watson exhaled slowly. "Oh, Holmes, I just don't know."

Sherlock sat up from the man's chest. He stared at his lover for a long moment, then put it all out of his mind. He smiled briefly, and began wiping Watson's face with his handkerchief.

"I will prove to you how much I love you," Sherlock said, kissing Watson. "When we are home, and this is over. You will see."

Watson did not quite believe him, but he was too tired to argue it further. He let Sherlock lay him down, and had to smile when Sherlock gave him a sweet kiss.

"You will see."

Sherlock left, and Watson was left alone. The words echoed through his mind, and he wondered at the convolution of Sherlock's tone. He did not sound as optimistic as he was trying to, and there was a muddle of feeling in his voice.

Watson wondered if Sherlock was aware of how ominous the reassurance had ended up sounding.

**Chapter Five**

_**From the personal diaries of John H. Watson, M.D.**_

"_It was a slow recovery as far as recoveries go. Due to the location of the wound, it was some time before I was able to walk, and I found myself without the will to propel myself further. I was listless, and depressed. Sherlock came to visit me but rarely. Every time I saw him, he looked all the worse. The case was eating away at him. If anything finally drove me to speed my recovery, it was the sight of him._

"_I intended to go straight to Baker Street when I was well enough to leave the hospital. That really was all I thought to do. However, it struck me then that Blackwood was aware of Mary, having seen her protect me in the chapel. As she had not visited me at the hospital again, I thought she might be in some danger. I had inquired as to who she was at the hospital, so I already knew she was a governess that boarded not very far from the hospital where I had been taken. Before hailing a hansom for home, I decided there would be no harm in checking to see that she was well and safe. It seemed a perfectly reasonable and innocuous decision at the time._

"_I was surprised to find Mary with eyes red from crying, clad in mourning black. She allowed me in, and we sat for long moments saying nothing in the parlor. The ring was gone from her finger. God forgive me, but some vile part of me felt such refreshment over the poor man's death, whoever he was. I don't know what crazy things I had started to hope for in the hospital that day, but all those half-formed fancies returned to me then. _

"_She finally told me what I already knew, that her fiancée had died. We muddled through the sympathies and whatnot lifelessly. _

"_But,' she said, brightening some, 'it is a great joy to see that you have survived, Dr. Watson.'_

"_You are too gracious, good woman,' I told her, feeling a wretch for my elation over her loss. 'It is a cruel world indeed that takes a true man from you, only to allow a man like me to live.'_

"_What do you mean by that?' asked she. 'You are a good man, Dr. Watson. It may seem presumptuous of me, but I have been told I have a-a talent for . . . reading people.'_

"_That you may, but you are wrong about me,' I said. The whole of it was suffocating me, and I found myself speaking before I could stop. 'Oh, Mary. Mary, I--'_

"_I told her about it . . . **all **of it. I told her all the truths that had been crushing me for the past weeks, and even some things I had not even suspected I felt. I told her of my old desires for a family, a wife and children, and how after the war I was too frightened by death and loss to pursue them. I told her how I was both attracted to and repelled by danger and adventure. I told her how tired I was, how spent. I told her of my bond to Sherlock (and I think she saw that for what it was, though she is too proper to ever speak of such a thing), and how that kept dragging me back to his side. _

"_I saw then why I had been so enraptured by her. She was all I had wanted before, before the war and before Sherlock Holmes. She was the normal, quiet world that was blasted from my grasp long ago. This lovely, graceful woman represented all I had ever longed for, all I had been unworthy of for so long._

"_And I loved her._

"_All these things, I told her. I had never spoken so honestly, never felt so raw before, not even with Holmes. I talked and talked, until there was nothing more to say. All the while, the woman listened, listened to my every word. She did not interrupt or sneer. She had no motive, no selfish agenda. She sat there and she listened, and she heard me._

"_You are not,' she said finally when I had done talking, 'a bad man.'_

"_I stared at her in disbelief. I had, admittedly, forgotten that was the way my confessions had begun. But Mary had stayed with her original point, and now she restated it factually, certainly. _

"_It is the strain of being a good man that has you distraught,' she told me. 'If you were bad, would you have so many worries? No, you would be happy so long as you were comfortable, and damn the world. **That **is the way of bad men, Mr. Watson. Your anguish is proof of your integrity.'_

"_It was the opinion of only one woman, but how it lifted my spirits. I felt a great weight fall from my shoulders._

"_After she said those words, we stared into one another's eyes. The feelings were so poignantly clear that I forced myself to stand. I apologized for taking so much of her time, and excused myself. She came with me to the door, and then told me that if I wished, I was welcome to see her again. Mindlessly, I assured her that I would._

"_All the way home, I thought of Sherlock. What the hell was I doing to him? How could I see a lady behind his back? How could I let myself make so many unspoken promises to her, when I had spent so long promising him all that I had? Mary's kind words were dashed from my mind, and again I felt the villain. How **could **I? I promised I would never hurt him. I promised so many things . . . _

"_Once home, I could not bring myself to say a word about Mary. Sherlock looked awful, completely wrecked, but the poor thing had such a delighted look in his eyes when he saw me. All I could do was hold him, kiss him, love him. _

"_It is amazing how many forms love can take. There is the grateful, respectful love one feels for family. There is the momentary love for a fellow comrade in the war, a familiar face in a jostle of strangeness. There is the always-present, taken for granted love of self. There is the ugly, twisted kind of love born strictly of physical desires and obsessions. There is the love of one's home, and the love of one's country. The love of life, and the love of culture. So many kinds of love, small and large, innocent and not._

"_My love for Sherlock shall always be the strongest, most passionate, most uncontrollable love I will ever be tormented and pleasured by. The onslaught of physical desire has always been enough to crush me, bring me straight to his arms: I love to **make love **to that man more than I have ever enjoyed the act with any other. Lovemaking is a dance with the man, hectic and full of unconscious movement and response. It is brutal, honest, and completely uninhibited. I doubt I shall ever experience such sex again, and I honestly would not want to experience it with anyone but him. Emotionally, I am a moth to his flame of need: he is a lonely man, Sherlock, and I greedily soak up the entirety of his attention. It feels good to know he needs me because I am literally the only one in the world he has. Well, save for Irene Adler, but he insists he does not want her, and I am not one to argue with that (he is too good for her, really). Anyway, I feel wanted, needed, by this man, this incredible, brilliant, beautiful man. It is both an honor and a responsibility. I love him so much, so very much that my heart could burst for the magnitude of it._

"_Yet, I know I also love Mary. My love for her is subtle, yet persistent, like a candle's flame persevering in the wind. It is a delicate thread strung between us, gossamer and almost too lovely to be real. Of course, I desire her in all ways that matter, but it is more than that, and less. The mutuality of it is balanced, in contrast to the wildly fluctuating give-and-take games between Sherlock and I. In her, I see the quiet stability of a middle-aged future that I have been longing for lately, the temperate future as opposed to the tempest past._

"_How cruel it is that a man's heart can be capable of two such loves. As wildly different as they are, as impossible as them existing simultaneously is, I want both. I feel I need both. Selfish! I deserve neither. I feel I should have died that night in the chapel, but how grateful I am to have lived! Selfish . . . I must come to a decision soon. It is unfair to all of us."_

"_---------"_

"_A month has passed since my last entry. Sherlock continues to work on the case, so deeply entangled in it that I am helpless to even slightly distract him anymore. His mood is foul, and his mind seems preoccupied with a thousand things. I have continued to see Mary, and I believe he suspects. No matter, I suppose, as I have come to a decision recently. I have chosen my future. I must tell him soon, soon . . . No. I must tell him tonight."_

Watson set down his pen, staring at the words scrawled on the page. He waited longer than was necessary for the ink to dry. Then, he was slow in his routine of closing the book, returning it to its drawer, and locking it all away.

Realizing he was being silly, Watson steeled himself, and walked briskly out of his bedroom. He found Sherlock pacing in the all-purpose main room, plucking away at the strings of his violin. His eyes were glazed, wide, but Watson knew the thoughts behind them would be sharply lucid. For a moment, he hung in the doorway, just watching his lover.

_Dear Holmes. Poor, dear Holmes._

Sherlock being Sherlock, he had known some things for a time. He recognized it all coming to a head now, and he was in no mood for Watson's emotional displays and excuses. Not bothering to look at the man, or stop pacing and twinging the instrument, he said, "You wish to tell me something."

Watson stood up straight, startled. "Oh, er, yes." He cleared his throat, coming into the room fully. "I did. Sherlock, you see, I don't know how to say this, but I--"

"You have been saying a lady." Pace. _Twang, twing, twang_ on the strings.

"How did you know that?"

"Who do you think you're talking to!" snapped Sherlock, unusually biting. He faced Watson, his knuckles white on the violin's handle. "I heard talk, if you must know. I am far too busy to have bothered to see for myself."

Watson was unusually calm in the face of this arrogant remark. Sherlock felt physically ill at the mere sight of him. How could he be so calm when he was about to ruin Sherlock's whole world? It threw doubts on whether he had ever loved Sherlock at all.

"Her name is Mary Morstan," Watson said slowly. "I met her--"

He explained the events Sherlock had not seen at the chapel. Sherlock was glum, wishing he had been more attentive that night. A darker part of his dark mind wished Blackwood had shot Mary while he was there. Of all the 'innocent women' being slain, why had she not been one of them?

"I am so sorry, Sherlock--" Watson took the man by the shoulders, ending his pace. "--that I have been doing such a thing behind your back. But you've been so troubled by this case, and I . . . I didn't know why I was doing it, or what would come of it."

"And now you know," Sherlock murmured. "Now you know what has come of it, which is why you are telling me. You have chosen between us."

"I have."

Sherlock pushed past him. "You have chosen her, and that is what you've come in here to tell me," he said darkly, his eyes moistening. "That you love-- You love--" He felt the wind knocked from his chest by the misery, and he smashed the violin into a table. "That you love _her_!" he spat the word as if it were a curse. "That you're going to marry _her_! That you-- you-- you're leaving, leaving me!"

Watson was stunned into silence by the hysterics. Sherlock Holmes was not an hysterical person by any measure. Once he got over the sight, Watson rushed to the man, restraining his arm, though not in time to save the unfortunate violin.

"No, _no_! Holmes! Listen to me!" Watson exclaimed as he wrestled with the man. "For God's sake, Holmes, I chose _you_!"

Sherlock paused in his efforts, breathing hard. "W-what?"

"I love you, and I will always love you and take care of you," Watson said gently. He held Sherlock by the shoulders at arms' length. "Do you remember that?"

Sherlock sniffled, blinked through his tears. "Yes, but--"

"Did you think that meant nothing to me?" Watson asked. "Did you think I was insincere?"

"Not at the time, but things change," Sherlock said shakily. "People change. Isn't that what you keep telling me?"

"I will never love anyone as much as I love you, Sherlock, not even Mary, and that will never change," Watson told him. "I am here, Holmes, I'm still here." He took Sherlock's face in his hands. "And I will continue to love you. I will take you in hand again, as I did the day we met, and we will be together always."

Watson kissed him, and Sherlock almost let himself believe the words. He wanted so desperately to believe them . . .

"And you would give up all that?" he asked doubtfully. "Your precious would-be wife and children and retirement? All the supposedly proper things you hold so esteemed?"

"Yes, and you will give up your stubbornness and your pride," Watson said. "We are leaving."

Sherlock felt his hopes plummet to the ground. "Leaving?"

"Yes, we'll just leave it all behind and go," Watson said.

Sherlock backed away from him. He put a fist to his mouth, thinking. "The case?"

"Hang the case! The police will figure it out, eventually."

"Have you gone mad, Doctor?" Sherlock asked flatly. "What happened to all your idealism and compassion? Don't you want to see the murders stopped?"

"Not at the cost of your life."

Sherlock waved a hand. "Pssh."

"I mean it." Watson came over to him. "It isn't worth it."

Sherlock gave him a cold look.

"Fine. Fine," Watson said, holding his temper. "This last case. You can solve this one last case."

Sherlock felt his own temper starting to simmer.

"But I will be packing," Watson said. "We're leaving, Sherlock. It is for the best."

Sherlock went back to pacing.

"Why are you so sullen?" Watson asked. "Isn't that what you wanted? I am asking you, Holmes, to let me choose you--"

"No, you're asking me to take the choice out of your hands," Sherlock said ruefully. He stopped, facing Watson. "You say you will choose me if I do the impossible for you, thus freeing yourself of the blame."

"What I am asking is perfectly reasonable," Watson argued. "All I've done for you, all I've given up and will give up for you . . . and you would refuse this one small thing?"

"You ask me to give up my home!"

"I ask to _be _your home!" Watson shouted. "You say you love me as much as I love you. Well, I would follow you anywhere in Heaven or Earth, to Hell if you'd wish, and be home so long as it was by your side. Is being by _my _side not enough for you, Holmes?"

Sherlock felt trapped by his own selfishness, and it only furthered his outrage. _No, it is **not **enough. He knows that. He knows it! Why does he force me to admit it? Why does he give me all this damned guilt?_

"You know I can't leave London," Sherlock said heatedly. "You knew what my answer would be! You're a coward!"

"I'm _human_ is what I am!" Watson cried. "Believe it or not, so are you. And this city has consumed me and left me empty. I would have let myself die that night, if I did not have you to live for. So let me live _for _you, Holmes, and live for me. Please. Let me have a future with you."

"There IS NO FUTURE!" Sherlock bellowed furiously. "The future is conjecture and baseless theory! It is _nothing_! You've become a slave to the fear of it!"

"And you a slave to denouncing it!"

"If you want the woman, then _say it_!" Sherlock yelled, shaking Watson by the front of his shirt. "Just say you've chosen her, and forget the games and excuses!"

"I don't _want _her, I want you!"

"You're lying!" Sherlock screamed. "Admit it!"

"I'm not lying, Holmes!"

"ADMIT IT!"

Sherlock punched him in the nose. Watson was taken by surprise, as Sherlock rarely struck him outside practice fights. The blood made the blow real enough, however, and Watson lunged at him.

"Damn it, Holmes, I wanted you!"

They banged around the room, furniture crashing around them.

"I ask for one thing, ONE THING!" Watson slammed Sherlock against the wall, held him there. "And that is more for your benefit than for mine. It is _your _life I wish to protect, even above my own!"

"What makes you think my life would be any safer outside London?" growled Sherlock. "The boredom alone would kill me!"

He struck Watson's face, twice. Watson struggled to push him off, and they crashed into a dresser. Their bulldog, who had been sleeping nearby, let out a pitiful whine, and scurried away for cover.

"Life is not a game, Sherlock!" Watson managed to pin Sherlock down on the floor, straddling him. "You can't always play it for fun!"

Sherlock struggled, but Watson's hands were around his neck, threatening to choke him. "Mmph."

"You can't . . . "

Watson's face softened. He rushed into a frenzied, sloppy kiss. Sherlock grasped at him, wishing they could forget it all in mindless sex.

"Sherlock," sighed Watson. He climbed off the man, pulled him against his chest. "Damn you, Sherlock. Do you even love me at all?"

"I do. You know I do."

"Then why am I not enough, Sherlock?" Watson tipped Sherlock's face towards his own by the chin. "Why is being with me not enough?"

Sherlock rested his face against his shoulder, shutting his eyes briefly. In truth, he felt the same exhaustion as Watson. He knew what it was to be burnt out physically, but his mind demanded more exertion, more challenge, more, more, ever more . . .

"You know what I need from this world, the only thing I have use for," Sherlock said quietly. "I must work."

"Your work does not have to be based here," Watson pointed out. "You can correspond--"

"It isn't the same."

"So, it is not only the intellectual challenge, as you claim," Watson surmised. "You are addicted to the excitement, the danger, as well, aren't you?"

Sherlock exhaled, closing his eyes again. "No more than you are, Doctor."

"But I _am _a doctor, after all," Watson said quietly. "I know my limits, and I know when to get out. The more you cling to your adventures, the more I cling to the dream of a normal life, and the two cannot be reconciled."

Still with his eyes closed, Sherlock argued, "That is not true. You can stay with me, and not be a part of my cases."

"The way I fret about you?" Watson laughed sadly. He smoothed Sherlock's hair, kissing the top of his head. "No, no, dear Holmes, I could never do that. I would always wonder, always worry, and ultimately go running after you."

"I wouldn't tell you about my cases, then."

"I would still have to stand by and watch you poison yourself slowly," Watson said. "The strain of the cases, the fighting on the streets, the drugs-- I can't, Sherlock. I simply cannot watch you kill yourself slowly."

"I'll be discrete."

"No. No, if I am ever going to be free of my anguish over you, the separation . . . has to be total." Watson sat Holmes up, prodded him into opening his eyes. "It has to be complete."

A pout gave Sherlock's face a roguish, almost childish cast. Watson felt his heartstrings tugging at him, nagging him to forgive the man everything. _No, no, I . . . if I hold him now, it will be the end of me._

"No," Sherlock said. He clung to Watson's shirt. "No, you can't leave me. I forbid it."

It was cute, but Watson was too miserable to be amused. "Sherlock."

"No!" Sherlock yelled at him, tears entering his large, dark eyes. "No, I—I can't lose you, Doctor. Not now. We have a case. The case."

"I can't. I can't _do this_ anymore."

Sherlock took the man's face in his hands, kissed him through a protest. "You can't," he said, the tears streaming down his face. Never before had he choked on sentiment, but now he found himself having to swallow before going on. "I love you."

"It isn't enough, Sherlock. It isn't . . . enough."

"I love you!" Sherlock yelled at him, regardless. "I never wanted to say that, to anyone, Watson, but I said it to you. I've said it, all these years, even when I am not saying it. I love you. I love you! And I need you."

Watson felt numb with pain, and he couldn't look at the man.

"Anything, ask anything else of me," Sherlock begged. "I'll stop with the narcotics. You can beat me, beat the daylights out of me."

"I don't want to beat you, Sherlock."

"Just don't leave," Sherlock demanded. "Stay, stay with me."

"I can't."

Watson stood, went to walk away. Sherlock lunged, grabbed the hem of his pants leg. Watson stopped, horrified. It was a very pathetic sight to behold, the proud, arrogant detective on his knees that way. Watson would have laughed, if his heart had not been twisting sickly inside his chest.

"Don't," he said mechanically. "Sherlock." He knelt down, put a hand to Sherlock's cheek. "You're too good for this."

"I would . . . I would suffer any indignity," Sherlock said. "You like to humiliate me, so go on. Do whatever you wish to me."

"It was never about humiliating you . . . much. I wanted to help you, but you never--" Watson stood. "No. I'm not going to go over this again. I'm through. This is all I have, Holmes. I don't _have _anything left for you."

"But you have for this Mary," scowled Sherlock, getting to his feet. "You're a fool, Watson!"

"You've always known I'm a fool, Sherlock," Watson said quietly. He put on his jacket, hat. "You're only angry that I am no longer _your _fool."

He turned and started for the door.

"You'll never love her the way you love me!" Sherlock shouted after him.

"No, I won't," Watson said, opening the door. "Thank God."

With a mournful glance at Holmes, the man then exited. Sherlock staggered a few steps towards the door, before falling to his knees. His mind, his preciously brilliant mind, was shot. His thoughts were a jumble of old words, more feelings than cohesive thoughts. Watson's voice echoed in his mind, all his promises, his tender whisperings of love . . . the scoldings, the lectures . . . the compliments, the insults, the doubts and the impressions . . .

Sherlock wondered when he had rolled onto his back, and how long he had been staring at the ceiling. His mind was so blank that it was almost a relief, but the incessant pounding remained. Gone, gone, gone . . .

_I am alone._

Sherlock blinked.

_For the first time since I was little more than a youth, I am truly, utterly alone._

Sherlock sat up, crawled over to the door. No, no, going after him would do no good. He could find him, of course, he could find anyone, but he could not _bring him back_. It was the farewell he had always known would come, the final goodbye he had dreaded for years. Why was it so hard to accept?

_Because there is no logic in emotion._

Sherlock hugged his knees by the door, and he a loud, bursting sob escaped his lips. He sounded as if he had been struck. He grasped at his hair, rubbed his face, but ultimately crumbled.

_There is no sense to love._

Sherlock banged his fists against his forehead, bawling more bitterly than he had in years. He hated Watson. He wished he had never met him. Why had he let him in? Damn it, WHY! It was stupid, so insanely stupid to fall prey to something as common, as dirty, as delusional as love. He was better than that.

_No, I'm not. _

_I'm not._

Sherlock hobbled to his feet, pausing as the pain held him in its grips, tightening his chest, shortening his breathing. An agonized wail escaped him, but it then turned to a furious shout. He hurled the coat rack beside him across the room, and followed it, bringing furniture down with him.

_Gone!_

Sherlock blamed the cases. He blamed his damned genius. He blamed his parents, his blood, his madness, his brilliance, and the entire world. He blamed Blackwood, and Mary. He blamed and cursed and shouted at it all.

"What good is any of it!" he shouted, smashing the violin again. "What good! If I am alone."

The words crumbled him again, and he fell to the floor crying. In the ruins of the already-messy room, Sherlock felt very small and insignificant suddenly. It was easy to forget just how isolated he was when Watson was with him, and now the cognizance of it seized him. His mind held him away from them all, as if he were an aberration rather than one gifted. Perhaps, such a 'gift' was merely another form of aberration. Perhaps he was no better than the circus freaks, or the mad.

Sherlock was hugging his knees, the broken violin in his arms. His fingers unconsciously plucked at the strings, producing off-kilter twangs. His eyes were glazed, stunned rather than thoughtful.

Through the haze of sorrow, Sherlock's mind began to function again, slowly. It felt rusty, and throbbed as if damaged internally somehow. Still, he began to think of the case, of the danger, of Watson's words: _"I would always wonder, always worry, and ultimately go running after you."_

Sherlock sniffled, wiped a sleeve across his nose. That was it, wasn't it? Watson _would _always care, that much was a given. The case was dragging on, three murders now, and there was plenty of danger to be had yet.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock was thrust into denial. He was vaguely aware of it, but pushed what small protests his mind could muster away. If Watson could be lured back into the case, if he could be reminded of his love of adventure, perhaps . . . perhaps . . .

Sherlock clung to this thought desperately, pitifully, he knew. What choice did he have? He had been waiting for this moment for years, and now that it was upon him, he found himself unready. _No, _he told himself stubbornly. _No, not yet. Not like this. Not to this Mary woman. I won't let him. I'll bring him back. He always, __**always **__comes back._

_I will bring him back to me._

Outside, Watson was sitting on the steps of the house, staring into the night. He had stayed outside Sherlock's door for a while, listening to the other sob childishly. He had heard the place being wrecked, and seen things flying through the window from the street when he had finally torn himself away from the door. It took every ounce of strength to keep from running back up there, taking the man in his arms and soothing away all his pain.

_I should have. I should have, I should have._

The thought kept running through his mind. He shook his head miserably. _No, I can't. I . . . I simply can't. Not this time. It isn't to punish him or save him-- I have to save myself. I need peace, I need . . . I want to live, damn it all! I want a life I can hold on to, a life I can see growing with me. Don't I deserve that? Don't I?_

Watson wandered down the street on foot, his eyes as dazed as Sherlock's. _I don't deserve anything. I should have died in the chapel. I wish I had, rather than hurt Sherlock this way. I promised, I promised him I would never leave him. Why didn't he remind me of that?_

Watson stopped walking. _Because he knew I would. All these years, and he __**knew **__I would leave him someday. I would have called him paranoid, suspicious, for it before. But he was right. I left. I walked out on him, just like that._

The man spent the night drinking, gambling, trying to wreck himself. For this night, he did not want Mary or anyone else. He just wanted to hurt.

_But it was Sherlock's fault! It was his fault, confound him! He wouldn't give me anything, not a damn thing! Certainly not consideration!_

Watson ended up throwing up in an alley, his hands shaking. He had not even noticed that he had removed his revolver from his pocket, but now he stared at it. The metal was cold in his hand, smooth. The war, memories of it came flooding back in vivid, horrible bloodstained flashes.

"I should have died then," Watson said bitterly. He exhaled, and pocketed the gun. His hands stilled from shaking, and he drew a deep breath.

"No," he said currently. "No. Whether coward or not, I . . . I do not want to die."

_So, I will live, and I shall do so without him. I owe it to myself. Damn it, he owes it to me. He has to let me be happy. I'm not like that tormented, ambitious man . . . I only need love to be happy. If that was not enough for him, then . . . _

Watson stumbled out of the alley. The dawn was just starting to break, and the air was cool. It should have refreshed him, but it only felt empty and chill.

_Then I must forge ahead with one for whom it **is **enough. I have to change, or accept the death that stagnation always leads to. It is almost tempting to go with the latter, but I can't. I want to live, and I need witness to my life. I wished he had let himself be that witness._

_But he will not change, and I must change or perish. So, I go on now, forcing him out of my mind, out of my life. I'll leave him in the past, step by step. Perhaps somewhere along the way, I'll learn to breathe again._

**The End**


End file.
